


Home Is Where The Heart Is

by Darmys



Series: Long Road Home [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Alternate Universe - The Highroad Trilogy, Canon Typical deaths, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Nick Munroe, Period-Typical Racism, Referenced Past Rape/Non-con, Robot!Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-11-05 22:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 102,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17927594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darmys/pseuds/Darmys
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester along with the crew of the Royal Sovereign are renegades. Their only hope lies across the fabled Highroad.There, in the birthplace of humanity they face treachery and madness, all in the quest to find a home.This is the third part of a massive space opera trilogy. Based on the original work of Alis A. Rasmussen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Housekeeping: 
> 
> This is the third and final part in a trilogy. My recommendation is to read the first two parts first, before attempting to read this, they were written as a trilogy and this work builds off of both Not In Kansas Anymore and Unto The Breach. 
> 
> Paisley's past will be brought up in ways that are offensive. 
> 
> This is not an MCD story. I haven't tagged for it because it's not, remember that when you want to yell at me. 
> 
> Posting schedule: Has obviously changed since I am starting this on the 26th of Feb, rather than the 4th of Mar. New chapters will post every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday until completed.
> 
> * * *
> 
> People I need to thank for their help on this trilogy. Because I wrote the first draft for all three parts before going back and editing NIKA the following people helped me with all three parts.
> 
> Icarusinflight, Baxxie24, Wargurl83, ThatPeculiarOne, Destimushi, Hartless and my hubby. I can't explain how much you all helped.
> 
> Kazshero. Not just with this trilogy, but with so much more. You are a dream to work with and I am so thankful that you came into my life.
> 
> Lady Fox. You are my rock, my light, my everything. Through tales untold and typos unnumbered. I have stumbled my way here, and owe every bit of polish to you.  
>  Onward and Wayward.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *

_The poisonous atmosphere swirls past Rufus’ clear face mask. As he crests the rise, stumbling on loose rocks he sees, through a gap in the mist, the writhing form of an alien._

_There’s no way to sneak up on it. The bastard has chosen terrain—if it can even think tactically—for its lack of cover. Without Fred and Augustus… and he can’t bear thinking about what’s happened to them. He needs to kill it, before it kills him and consummates its horrible rite. Revenge can come later._

_There’s a woman, tied to a stake well within reach of the alien’s lashing tentacles. Seeing him emerge out of the fog, she starts to fight frantically against the cords binding her to the stake, trying to free herself. Her struggling causes the alien slither closer._

_He draws his knife and charges._

_He dodges the first tentacle as the second whips across his chest, throwing him down. He stabs at it, gouging a rent across the putrid skin. Gouts of acidic fluid spatters his face. It burns, eating into his skin, slowing him. A third tentacle wraps around his leg. He slashes at it, but another grabs him and another until even his knife arm is pinned to his side. All he can hear is the woman’s cries as the alien’s maw, rimmed with red, gaping suckers, lowers toward him and attaches itself with viscous strength to his blistering face._

“I lost again!” Rufus screams, the shudder running through him as he wakes from the dream not part of his nightmare.

A blow cracks the door to his hostel unit. Before he even swing his legs off of the liquor-stained couch, the plasboard splinters and separates and two constables break through the opening. Both have their power-spiked batons out at the ready.

“Rufus Turner?” An electronic shield masks the man’s real voice.

Still fuzzy from the aftereffects of the dream, Rufus can only press the heel of one palm to his forehead and grunt an affirmative. His other hand reaches to grope under the pillows of the couch.

“Both hands where we can see them,” the second constable, a woman, snaps.

Both constables tense and crouch as Rufus pulls out a cylindrical vessel, but he merely flips off the top and takes a deep draught of whiskey from a grimy glass bottle.

“That’s disgusting,” mutters the woman.

“Rufus Turner,” starts the man again, ignoring his colleague’s comment, “you’re under arrest for illegal possession of the drug Dextrocopidem phosphorothioate. Dream crystal. You have the right to remain silent—”

“I would suggest,” breaks in a low, gravelly—and distinctly nonhuman—voice from the third door, “you switch off those enhanced batons of yours and we discuss this like civilized beings.”

“Oh, piss it, Jervis,” swears the woman, turning to see a squat, simian-like creature appear in the doorway. “Clegg swore top to bottom the Pongos were gone. I’ll have his ass for this.”

Jervis swings slowly around.

“Drop the rods.” A second voice, lower and rougher than the first.

Faced with a primitive, but clearly operational, double-barrel shotgun held in the powerful hands of the second simian, both constables carefully set down their batons, the only weapons they’re armed with.

Hands shaking, Rufus takes another slug of whiskey. “Fred,” he says after a moment to the one holding the shotgun. His voice’s still hoarse from dream crystal. “Let’s not have any trouble. I can’t afford to lose my license.”

Fred hesitates, regarding the constables with deep suspicion.

“Really, Frederick,” says the first simian. He is as alike in build as a twin, but leaner in his hairy face. “I cannot understand why you continue to prefer that outmoded piece of hardware when we have sufficiently modern weapons available.”

“Yeah, Aug,” Fred agrees, “but they ain’t got the kick this one’s got.” He sets down the shotgun and shoves it away with a hairy three-toed, one-thumbed foot.

The constables retrieve their batons.

“According to our warrant,” Jervis recites, unclipping a thin computer slate from his vest, “your bounty license is suspended until such time as you appear before the tribunal in League headquarters on Concord.”

“Son of a bitch.” Rufus takes another drink from the bottle.

“Frederick,” interposes Augustus as Fred reaches for the shotgun. “Rufus, I will call your advocate.”

“Sure, sure,” mumbles Rufus, but Augustus has already disappeared into the back room. He glances up at the masks disguising the features of the two constables. “So what’s the real charge, or are you chumps just errand kids?”

At a nod from Jervis, the woman picks up the shotgun and follows Augustus into the back room. Fred lingers, undecided and a little confused, on the threshold.

Jervis peels aside the mask to reveal dark features and unexpectedly cheerful eyes. “Buddy,” he says, his voice normal now the electronic overlay’s been removed, “some people hold it against you for what you did in the war, but I say we couldn’t have won without your kind.”

“Thanks.” 

“Anyway,” Jervis continues, evidently missing Rufus’ sarcasm, “I just bring in the warrants and I got six constables outside in case you give us any trouble. But I’ll tell you this. There’s a one way ticket for you and the Pongos down at precinct and it’s for Concord, so I guess it’s where you’re going, whether you want to or not.”

“Don’t call ‘em ‘Pongos’,” Rufus says wearily. He runs a hand over his hair.

“Yeah,” agrees Fred, belligerently. “It ain’t nice, calling us names.”

“Which reminds me,” adds Jervis, unfazed by this rejoinder, “their visas _are_ up to date, aren’t they?”

Rufus lifts the whiskey to his lips, hesitates and with a sigh lowers the bottle and caps it. He stands. He’s a tall man, muscular in build. The seediness of his surroundings and his general air of overindulgence and odor of alcohol and drugs doesn’t mask this. The constable keeps his baton raised.

“Goin’ to pack a duffle,” Rufus says, mocking the man’s caution. Fred pulls back his lips in a parody of a human grin. “Get on, Fred. Get your stuff together.”

Jervis pulls his mask back over his face, hiding his features.

Augustus emerges from the back room, followed by the other constable. “Unfortunately, Rufus, your advocate has already been contacted by Concord Intelligence about the matter. He says his hands are tied.”

“Am I surprised,” Rufus murmurs cynically, without making it a question. “Hustle up. Let’s get it over with.”

It’s the matter of a few minutes to pack three bags, then the two constables usher them outside. With the other six officers added on, they make a procession enlivening the day for all the residents of the rundown hostel. When the party pauses in the lobby for Jervis to clear Rufus’ bill with the manager, a small crowd of disreputable-looking folk gather to stare and comment.

“Izzat the bounty hunter?”

“Yeh. Pretty brave of them peelers to bring him in.”

“Who do ya s’pose he were hunting?”

“Dunno.”

“Cleans the place up, though, don’t it? Getting rid of him and those Pongos. I don’t like bounty hunters.”

“What, you afraid one’s looking for you, Raul?”

A general swell of raucous laughter greets this sally, made bolder by Rufus’ lack of response.

“Nah. Raul ain’t dangerous enough to be passed over to the bounty list by the peelers.”

“Am so.”

“Shut up,” Jervis snaps as he steps back from the desk. “Or we’ll do a proper raid here one of these days. I can smell dream crystal on every one of you. Now piss off.”

The crowd dissipates. “Thanks,” Rufus murmurs. Looking disgusted, Jervis motions and the constables lead their charges down the entry stairs.

“I dislike this,” Augustus says, subvocalizing to Fred as they’re marched down and settle in the back compartment of the security wagon ferrying them to the precinct office. Rufus sits at the opposite end of the compartment, eyes shut, face half hidden under several days’ growth of beard.

“Yeah,” Fred agrees, tapping his stubby foot claws against the floor. “It sucks.”

“No, Frederick. I mean, I am deeply disturbed by Rufus’ meekness. It is simply too much at odds with his character. I fear this current binge of drug taking masks some severe form of depression overtaking him recently. I advised him before, bounty work is not suited to his talents.”

They both turn to look at their companion, concern clear on their apelike features. Fred wrinkles up his nose, taking in the unpleasant antiseptic stench of the compartment, their own pleasant and familiar scent and the stronger smell—to him, at least—of Rufus’ unwashed clothing and skin.

“Yeah.” Fred shrugs his powerful shoulders, his equivalent of a nod.

Rufus opens his eyes, looking directly at them and, with the barest grin, he winks.

  


.oOo.

  


It takes a ship week to reach Concord, the web of interlinked stations in orbit around a nondescript star whose only claim to fame is its position at the approximate center of League space.

Augustus and Fred hog the bubble viewport in the transport bringing them into docking with Intelligence’s hub. Behind them Rufus sleeps, snoring softly. If he looks better than the day he was arrested it’s probably because the drugs and whiskey he tried to smuggle in his duffle got confiscated at the precinct office.

Fred gapes at the view. A complex net of stations and connecting tubes with solar arrays and ships in various stages of repair, manufacture, or loading, presenting an astonishingly intricate and beautiful pattern in the reflected light of the sun against the deep of space.

Augustus has his computer slate out and is busy calculating stresses, area to volume and mass while on a second window he sketches out as complete a diagram of the web as possible, labeling it as he goes.

A light blinks and the chime sounds, warning them as the door to their cell opens. Fred whirls in an aggressive stance, hind legs bending as he leans heavily on his thick, long arms, ready to propel himself forward. Because he’s almost as thick as he is tall, the effect is intimidating.

Rufus opens his eyes, although he doesn’t move from his pallet, and glances at the two guards who are stumbling back from the threshold.

“Fred,” he says quietly. “Lighten up.”

Fred rocks back onto his haunches, grinning again. Augustus has taken the opportunity to surreptitiously tuck his slate back into the sling on his chest in which he usually carries his weapons.

“Get up, Turner,” snaps the foremost guard. “We’re taking you off the ship in a flyer. The two Pongos stay on board.”

Rufus chuckles and settles his hands behind his head, looking comfortable. “Someone scared we’ll go on a rampage if we set foot in the happy zones?”

“You must be aware,” replies the guard stiffly, “your record of the past fifty years does not give the common run of humanity any reason to trust you.”

Rufus rolls smoothly up to his feet. “Listen, I didn’t come here for a morality lecture. I’m ready to go.” As he speaks he makes a few quick gestures with one hand, sign language to his two companions. Fred rubs vigorously at one shoulder, curses, and with surprising delicacy removes a tiny insect from his long, dark hair and pops it in his mouth, smacking his lips.

“Move it,” says the guard, unable to hide his disgust.

Rufus grins and follows him.

The ride to the station is uneventful.

Several elevators take him, escorted by a shifting company of eight to ten guards, to some undetermined level of the Intelligence complex. He’s shown into a small, square room and left alone.

He paces it quickly, measuring and then sprawls himself untidily in its single uncomfortable chair and waits. As he’d expected, the lights dim around him, leaving him isolated in a spotlight of brightness and the closest wall takes on a translucent sheen to reveal three persons sitting at a console behind it.

“Rufus Turner?” A woman’s voice.

He doesn’t bother to answer.

“Are you aware you’ve been arrested under League provision—”

“Let’s dispense with the formalities,” interrupts a second voice, also a woman. “I scarcely think we need bother to waste time on such as him.”

“If we do not ‘waste’ time on such as him, my dear,” replies the first woman calmly, “then we cannot claim to be a free and equal society.” She pauses.

The second woman’s lack of reply is eloquence enough.

“You know I’m Turner,” Rufus answers, getting impatient. “I know what the supposed charges are, if you can make ‘em stick the most they’ll cost me is a fine. I wanna know what idiot suspended my bounty license and how the hell you expect to uphold the suspension in a court of law. That is,” he adds with a mocking smile, “if people like me and what’s left of ‘my kind’ are allowed access to the law courts anymore.”

“You see what I mean,” mutters the second woman. The third, a man, murmurs something Rufus can’t make out, although its tone sounds like assent.

“I see no reason to continue fencing in this manner,” the first woman speaks, maintaining her calm. “The fact is you possess a license on sufferance, not from any intrinsic right to hold it. You know as well as I it can be revoked at any time.”

Rufus straightens in the chair, focusing his eyes on the man’s shadowy form. “Maybe, I didn’t think it would come to this. I’ve been good. As good as I can be, I guess _you’d_ say,” he adds, directing the comment to the woman who sits in the center. “So maybe this isn’t ‘bout me personally. Maybe the old man’s been dead long enough now you figure his memory can’t protect us anymore.”

“Surely,” inserts the man—an impatient and slightly nervous voice, “surely you can’t expect us to condone the life you and the other saboteurs Shurley—bless his memory—established, the life you led, the actions you took. Even Shurley had to disavow some of the things you did.”

“That’s a lie,” growls Rufus. “He knew the stakes we were running. I don’t claim we were angels, or even _civilized_ like you folks—”

“And none of you,” interrupts the second woman sharply, “ _None_ of you ever did anything excessive?”

Rufus’ silent.

“My dear,” the first woman says reproachfully.

“We saved your asses from the Kapellans, now all you intellectual types’ve gotten squeamish about the methods we used to do it. Why am I not surprised?”

No one answers him.

“So what’d’ya want me for?” he asks finally, resigned.

“A simple trade,” the first woman speaks, still temperate. “You bring us a few people and we restore your license— _without_ the revocation clause.”

“What?” Rufus retorts, disbelieving. “You want me to bring in the queen of the highroad, or something? Can’t be done.”

The first woman chuckles. “We don’t interfere with the privateers. No. Here’s a display—some likenesses.”

To the right of the three shadowed forms a console lights up and nine faces appear on a screen.

Rufus stands up. “No!” He walks straight forward to the wall and slams it with a closed fist. “I won’t hunt my own, you bastards.”

“It states, on the record,” the second woman says smugly, “when you were first granted your license you agreed, if any saboteurs break codified law they’d be an acceptable bounty. You did bring in one ex-saboteur named Gordon Walker. Seventeen years ago.”

“Walker deserved what he got. He went sour after the war ended and no matter what you think, there weren’t any of ‘us’ who condone rape. We killed a guy once—a nice, respectable stationmaster—who we caught trying to do some poor underage Kapellan girl who was a refugee from Betaos. Actually,” he grins, a predator’s look, “ _we_ didn’t kill him. We got him drunk and left him to his own devices. Wasn’t our fault he thought sleeping with a sweet Je’jiri girl on the prowl was a good idea. Her clan did the rest.”

So close to the glass, he can see their bodies react, if not their faces. The man shudders, obvious. The second woman stiffens, tense and disapproving.

Only the first woman remains unruffled. “I’m relieved to hear there’s still honor, of a kind, among thieves. Shall we return to the screen? The alternative, you realize, is you’ll be arrested under inter-League law, as adopted at the Second Concordance Postwar Convention and immediately sentenced to life in the prison station here on Concord, from which, I might remind you, there’s been no—and I mean zero—escapes since its installation.”

“That’s it, huh? What about my partners?”

“Their visas will be revoked and they’ll—of course—be allowed passage to the nearest Ardakian embassy so they can return to their home planet.”

“I’ll bet you know damned well they’re not welcome there.” Rufus opens his fist, tapping his index finger twice on the shielding wall and moves to get a better look at the screen.

Nine faces. He examines them one by one.

“Malachi? He’s dead. You’re Intelligence, thought you’d know that.” He chuckles. “Though it makes me feel better knowing you didn’t. Rachel. Can’t help you there. She signed on with Dagon about six years back and I’m not tangling with her.”

“Ah,” says the first woman. The first two pictures flick off into blackness.

“Pastor Jim. I don’t know what happened to him. He’s as decent as they come, by any standard and he must be going on old by now. If anyone deserves some peace, he does.” He glances back at them, scornful. “But I guess you can’t chance he might have some latent savagery in him, can you? And you certainly won’t trust my word.” He says with mockery. “And who’s this? Gabriel?” He laughs, frankly amused. “You’ll never find him.” Dismissing him by moving on to the next photo. “Pamela.” He grins again. “Serve you right to bring her in. She’d cut you to pieces with just her tongue.” He shakes his head briefly. “She disappeared a good twenty years ago.”

“But,” interrupts the second woman, “she’s always been closely linked with—”

“Singer?” exclaims Rufus, disbelieving. “You expect _me_ to bring in _Bobby Singer_? You’re crazy. Even if I could _find_ him—”

“We have a less than two year old location on him,” the second woman says sharply. “He was last going under the name Smith.”

“You’re crazy,” Rufus repeats. “I’m not qualified. Nobody is. He’s the best.”

“If I may,” interposes the first woman smoothly, “I understand there’s reason to believe Singer’s dead.”

“Dead? Right and I have four arms.”

“I want it substantiated,” the first woman speaks in a voice made cold by its ruthlessness. “And everyone associated with him tracked down.”

Rufus glances through the glass again, wishing he can make out her face. A tone in her voice itches at him and he feels it important he identify her. He shrugs and looks at the next picture. “Angel? What’s he doing here? He’s in prison.”

“Not anymore.” Fury underlies the words. The second woman turns her head to look at the screen, revealing in the movement a careful, traditional coiffure of her hair. It takes him a moment, but then he identifies it. Indian subcontinent, neo-Hindi. “He was last seen with Singer.”

“Well, good for Angel,” Rufus mutters under his breath. Louder, he says, “I don’t recognize these last two. Never seen them before.”

“They were also seen with Singer,” explains the first woman. “We suspect they’re new recruits.”

“Well, I never thought of Singer as a recruiter.” He hesitates examining the seven photos left and then his three inquisitors. “What’re their names?”

“We believe it to be Smith also. Sam and Dean Smith.”

“All right,” Rufus agrees, stepping back from the wall. “I’ll bring them in. In trade for my license back.”

“That is not the deal.” The second woman dismisses the suggestion with a brusque wave of her hand.

“Listen. I bring them in. Maybe they’ve got current information on Singer, maybe on Angel. You make a deal with them and you won’t be asking me to break old loyalties.”

“He’s got a point,” says the man.

“Metatron!” snaps the second woman. “Are you suggesting we bargain with—with _this_?”

“My dear—”

“No,” Rufus interrupts. “He’s suggesting we saboteurs might yet have some semblance of human loyalty. I know you’re ready to lock what’s left of us in a zoo and let the kids come down on the holidays to get a look at the old throwbacks, to the days when we’d just as soon rip each other’s throats out as rip out the throat of the local rabbits for food, but hell, even back then, before fire was invented, we ran in packs. So don’t push me.”

The second woman stands behind the console. “You’ve got no ground on which to threaten me.”

“My dear.” The first woman’s voice has not lost its evenness, but it is firm. The second woman doesn’t sit down, but she stops speaking. “Agreed,” the first woman says, looking back at Rufus. “Bring in Sam and Dean Smith and we’ll restore your license.”

“Without the revocation clause?”

“Agreed. You’re a good bounty hunter, Turner. We’d hate to lose you.”

“I’ll bet you would,” Rufus mutters. “You don’t find many people these days willing to track out into The Pale. So where do I find them?”

“You’ll start by going to Dunedin.”

“It’s The Pale, then.”

It might be his imagination, but through the shadowy glass Rufus thinks he sees the first woman smile. “No. It’s a little farther out.”

After the guards remove the prisoner, the three agents sit in silence for only a few moments before the second woman turns in anger on the first.

“I can’t believe you bargained with him.”

“Dumah, my dear, we are civilized human beings—I hope—and he is, I think, also human.” Her tone is gently reproving.

“Naomi, just because we approved cruelty, violence and aberrant behavior in our long and frequently sordid history does not mean we should continue to tolerate those in our midst who are—as Turner himself quite rightly put it—throwbacks to the very worst in human nature.”

“I think you exaggerate, Dumah.” Naomi taps her slate, reading the time display and stands. “I have an appointment. We’ll meet again next week?”

She nods, curt but respectful. But as the door closes behind Naomi, she turns to her other companion. “Just think, Metatron, the seven saboteurs pictured are known to be collectively responsible for five thousand deaths. Officially recorded ones.”

“Dumah,” protests Metatron, “you know I dislike them as much as you do, but after all, all but seven of those deaths were during the war and most were Kapellan casualties.”

“The war,” she repeats sarcastically. “That excuses everything, doesn’t it? Maybe, just maybe—although I am still not convinced—that was the only way to free the League from the Empire. Or at least the most expedient one. But they are accustomed to killing now, to destruction, an entire mind set of using violence as a way to solve conflict. We might as well reinstate human sacrifice. I will not let that happen. I will use every means I have to see every last one of Shurley’s terrorists put in prison.”

“You’re not going to get them _all_ in prison,” he replies, standing and going to the door. It opens. “Are you coming? I’m going to get something to eat.”

Dumah remains fixed in place, staring at the chamber in which Rufus Turner, bounty hunter, hell raiser and former terrorist, so recently walked. “Then they are better off dead.”

“You really hate them, don’t you?” He sounds surprised. “I dislike what they did as much as the next person and I certainly want to make sure their way of thinking is never again fostered in our children, but—you do seem rather vehement.”

She doesn’t reply immediately, considering whether or not to confide in him. After a bit he steps back fully into the room and the motion of the door sliding shut behind him triggers something in her. She speaks in a low voice. “The saboteurs killed my sister.”

“ _Killed_ her? I’m—I’m sorry, Dumah. Was it at St Marys? That’s the only place I know of where civilians died.”

“Besides nonhuman civilians? Who do not count? No. She was seduced into joining them. She was a saboteur. She disgraced our family and now she is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats helplessly. “I didn’t know.”

“No one does. My family disowned her and we never spoke of her again. But I loved her. I will never forgive them for her death.” Then, like the admission ends the conversation, she stands and walks to the door, waiting as it opens. “Dinner sounds good,” she says in an entirely different voice, casual and pleasant. “How about Stripe’s cousin’s place, over in New Norfolk? He does those great Ridani pastries, dappling tarts.”

The door closes behind them as they leave. On the screen, the remaining pictures flick off, one by one, into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What to do, what to do?
> 
> * * *

The corridors of the _Royal Sovereign_ hold a luminescence that fascinates Owen. Dimmed down, the lights reveal intricate textures shading the walls that he finds endlessly interesting. He can follow them for hours, aimlessly, or hide in the shadows listening to the impassioned conversations brightening the half-lit mess hall or the high banks of Engineering. The only place he never goes is the Green Room—the impenetrable mass of growing things, keeping the ship habitable—because it scares him.

Sometimes he even manages to slip unseen onto the bridge, dim now like everywhere else. He stands in the darkest most obscure corner and stares at Dean as he sits brooding at the captain’s console, ensconced in a deep backed chair, the miraculous Baby hovering at his side. It seems he spends most of his time here, while they’ve been drifting in some forgotten tag-end of space. Sitting, staring at the screen of space and stars and one distant sun, a suggestion of brilliance at the edge of the screen.

The dimness lends his freckled skin a luminescence which reminds Owen of the corridors of the ship, like he’s slowly taking in the essence and reflecting it back. Like he’s becoming part of the ship in the same way Owen often feels he is—knowing it too well—so eventually one’s own _self_ can no longer be separated from the _substance_ of the _Royal Sovereign_.

Owen knows Dean knows he’s here, hiding in the shadows. The others—most of them—forget he exists, or ignore him, but Dean’s always aware of him, at least when he’s on the bridge. Dean allowing him to stay, or at least not caring if he does, when others might chase him off, has long since become one of the reasons Owen admires him with the kind of fierce proud admiration only the very solitary can develop.

But right now Sam’s also on the bridge, busy at a console and either oblivious to Owen’s silent presence or ignoring him, and Sam’s very shuffling and breathing obliterates the mood of communion Owen feels has grown in those quiet times he shares with Dean on the bridge. Dean brooding over their troubles and Owen absorbing the force of his concentration.

Owen turns and slips out of the bridge padding the back ways and circuitous routes through the darkened corridors to the mess hall. With power shut down to one third, it’s become the central meeting place and general living area for the crew and it’s here he finds his mother.

He draws a seat in beside her so he can sit down. As usual, the table is too crowded for his tastes—he’s long since learned to prefer an empty cubicle or the secret crevices others pass by. There are six people at the table and all of them are talking loudly, without any order whatsoever.

“We’ve been drifting on the edge of this system for three days now, on cut power, cut rations. Not to mention the casualties still in Medical who, as far as I know, are on cut drugs and bandages.” Benny speaks.

“The casualties in Medical are the least of my worries,” Victor counters calmly. “Whatever other problems or reservations we might have about Castiel, he’s the best doctor I’ve seen work. But we have twelve people on this ship—not counting the casualties who couldn’t be moved, of course—who stayed with us after the mutiny and their loyalty is not ultimately to Dean but to whatever opportunity he represents. Eventually they’re going to get tired of being refugees and want some tangible proof of that opportunity.”

“And how are they going to get it,” Benny demands, “when we’re stuck in this system because we don’t have enough power and basic supplies to leave?”

“Enough to leave,” interposes the Mule fluidly, “but certainly not enough to attempt this fabled ‘way’ to the old worlds, where presumably opportunity awaits.”

The Mule’s comment brings silence. Owen squirms restlessly in his chair. Past the tables, he can see the opening through which food is served from galley to mess. In the half-darkness of the galley itself he makes out Alex’s form busy at some task. Normally she’d be out here, sitting beside his mother, contributing now and again to the conversation. But lately, ever since the mutiny, she has been keeping to herself, avoiding his mother and even Owen himself. She seems preoccupied and while it hurts that she has little more than an absentminded pat for him when he wanders in to the galley, he’s long since developed an ability to hide his feelings, even from his mother.

He sighs, swinging his short legs under his seat.

“I still think our only choice is to sell our services,” Pinto speaks up, breaking the silence. He sounds a little defensive, which makes Owen sit up and take notice. “We can transport cargo—”

“Without permits?” Victor asks.

Pinto dismisses the requirement with a wave of a hand. “What permits? Central’s authority’s gone. I doubt the new government’s had time to institute their policies in such detail, certainly not this far out. I’m sure these systems need some quick and reliable transports.”

“Hold on.” Jody speaks. “That’s all well and good, even probably true. But the incoming comm-traffic we’ve picked up indicates Holbrook’s still under Central’s authority..”

“Or what’s left of them out here,” Victor adds. “Jehane’s people will get out here eventually and mop them up.”

“And we’d better be long gone before they get here,” Benny snaps. “We can’t hare off doing merchant’s work. It locks us onto roads, leaving us vulnerable to Jehane’s fleet. We’ve got to reprovision and dump the casualties who don’t want to stay with the ship on the nearest Station hospital and run. That’s our only chance.”

“Which brings us back around to the original question,” Victor says drily. “How do we resupply without any means to pay for it?”

Another pause. Benny shifts restlessly in his seat, lancing a brief, resentful glare at the two Ridanis—Pinto and Paisley—who sit opposite him. Owen looks up at his mother, but her attention’s drifted toward the galley. He can see her profile, and her expression as she watches the obscure shape of Alex moving along a shadowed counter disturbs him with feelings he has no name for.

“Sell the Miescher Formula,” Benny mutters with a mutinous glance at Paisley. “For supplies.”

Paisley responds by pushing up instantaneously to her feet. “Never! Min Winchester shan’t _never_ sell ya Formula. It be ya wrong, min Benny, never you mind what you think and it would be ya sore kinnas to insult ya memory of ya woman as died to see it made free for all to have.”

“Then can you suggest what else we have to trade?” Benny shoots back, undaunted by her fierce look. “Or perhaps you and min Pinto can volunteer to sell your services to the curious planetside.”

Pinto jumps up.

“Benny!” Jody snaps, rising as well at the same time as she reaches out to forestall Pinto from punching Benny. “That remark was totally uncalled for. Pinto, sit down.”

Pinto doesn’t sit down. Eyes still locked on Benny, he answers Jody. “You can’t expect me to let it go.”

“Yes, I can and I do,” Jody tells him. “We’ve got more important problems to consider.” She applies a slight, but firm pressure on his arm and he sits unwillingly. Letting go of him, she turns to smile coldly at Benny. “Perhaps an apology would be in order?”

Benny glowers at the tabletop, looking not quite as sullen as Pinto.

Paisley laughs. “Hurts, don’t it?” she says, but not in any triumphant way. “But it be sure, I were already volunteered to sell my services on Hexham and it weren’t no happy time for me, that be ya truth.”

Benny glances up at her, looking at last a little shamefaced. “I forgot about—” he mumbles, waving a hand is some obscure motion likely not meant to mean anything. “I’m sorry.” And looks down again.

Paisley sits.

“Thank you,” Jody says with a sigh. She and Victor exchange a glance fraught with long suffering complicity.

“But it still doesn’t answer,” Benny mutters, unrepentant, “what we’re going to use to pay for supplies. We’ve only got two shuttles left, since we sent Framingham and his people off in the other one, so we can’t afford to lose one of those and certainly none of us have any legitimate credit anymore, with or without comm-screens to link into the bank net. I don’t see what choice we have but to sell the Miescher Formula. And _I know_ ,” he adds with a swift glance to mollify Paisley, “how Dean—how the captain—feels about it being accessible to every citizen of Riven space.”

“I don’t suppose it’s occurred to any of you,” Jody speaks softly, “with a warship of this class and a decent contingent of mercenaries—which we have—we don’t _have_ to pay. We could _take_ what we need.”

Victor smiles slightly. Owen stops fidgeting. For once, Benny looks as righteously shocked as Paisley and they start to protest vocally at the same moment, stopping in confusion at the other’s words.

The Mule hisses, long and sharp. “It’d be immoral,” they say, “and perfectly human of you. I’ll have no part in it.”

“In any case,” Pinto points out, “the people on Holbrook have never done anything to us.”

Jody grins, glancing at Victor again. “But if they had, it’d be all right to take what we need by force?”

“B’ain’t _never_ right,” Paisley exclaims.

“Do you expect me to believe,” Benny asks, “you, or any other tattoo—Ridani—never stole from the people who weren’t Ridanis while you lived on Station? It’s common knowledge it’s all right for Ridanis to steal from people who aren’t tattooed, just not from each other.”

“Sure it be ya common knowledge,” Paisley replies scornfully, “cause it be ya easier to believe ya worst o’ us than ya truth. That way it be less burdensome to treat us so bad.”

Benny blushes. It’s easy to see, because of his fair skin and the tightening of his mouth adds to his expression of discomfit.

Victor chuckles. “She’s got you with that one, Comrade.”

Benny shoves back his chair and, without a word, stands up and stalks out of the mess.

Paisley stands as well, looking worried, but Jody catches her eye and shakes her head. “Let him go, Paisley,” she says. “It won’t hurt him to dwell a little on his sufferings.”

“But I didna’ mean—” Paisley says.

“Paisley,” Pinto interrupts. “I can’t _begin_ to understand how you can have any sympathy for that bastard, considering how many times he’s made it quite clear how he feels about us _filthy tattoos_.”

“Because he’s min Winchester’s friend,” Paisley states with dignity, “and because it be ya wrong o’ us to return prejudice with hatred.” She sits down, looking fierce and a little haughty.

Victor applauds softly. Jody smiles. The Mule says nothing.

“That’s fine,” Pinto says, looking disgusted, “for people like Athena, but look where it got her.”

“Pinto! It be sore wrong o’ you to speak such o’ ya dead—”

Owen slips out from under his mother’s careless touch, off his chair and pads out of the room, leaving behind what bids fair to develop into one of Paisley’s full blown speeches. She’s a mere slip of a teen, scarcely twice Owen’s age, which seems to amuse the others, but it depresses him. It’s one of the reasons he so rarely speaks up. If they find her opinions, as passionate and generous as they are, more delightful than provoking and Paisley so old at sixteen, what then would they think of him, a thin sprite of some seven ship’s years, expressing the deep and private thoughts urging him to wander the ship? Paisley might be oblivious, or immune, to their amusement, but Owen is not.

He goes to find the one person who always takes him seriously, who never treats him like a child. He heads to Medical.

He checks the lab first, but the counters and console bays where Cas can often be found working are silent and dark. Slipping past Rainbow, there’s always a guard left as a precaution at the Medical door, he pads into the main ward.

Cas’ blue hair is harder to distinguish in the half light, but still his figure is the first and most obvious one in the large space. The broad flats of beds lie awash in light which, although dim even here, seem brilliant compared to the severe rationing imposed on the rest of the ship. Cas moves with quiet grace from couch to couch, checking stats and speaking briefly with each couch’s occupant—those who can speak.

Cas’ assistant trails after him, a young Ridani woman who’d gotten medical technologist training when she’d joined Jehane’s forces some four years back. To Owen, it seems Flower lives and walks in perpetual amazement that someone of Cas’ skill and experience treats her, tattoos and all, with respect. Pausing to watch her as she bends over a patient, Cas observes but doesn’t interfere. Owen’s not surprised she and the other Ridanis so readily defected to the mutiny.

“His signs look ya better,” Flower murmurs. “But with ya trauma to ya head I just don’t know if he’ll ever regain consciousness.”

Cas lays a hand on the man’s brow, a gesture which to Owen’s eye looks more like a benediction than one bearing any resemblance to the rude temperature-taking his mother caresses him with on those few occasions he’s been sick.

Cas removes his hand and shakes his head. “This one’s gone deep,” he says softly. “I still can’t predict if we’ll be able to bring him back.”

Flower stares raptly at him, admiring. He gives her a brief, if absentminded, smile and starts to turn to the next couch.

Stops. Pausing, like some unseen information has come to him and turns to look right at Owen.

Owen starts to step forward and realizes someone else has come in behind him, Cas’ attention has focused on this new arrival.

“Hey, Owen,” Dean says casually as he walks pass him.

Cas moves obliviously past Flower’s admiration and goes to meet him. He doesn’t touch Dean, but the force of his attention is almost tactile, it’s so strong.

“How are the casualties?” Dean asks, not as casually.

“Six are still in a coma, eight are at least partially conscious but seriously disabled, and the other nine you’ve seen in the convalescent ward. None of them are going to be active any time soon.”

“Otherwise we would’ve shipped them off with Framingham. I know.” Dean looks troubled. “Good thing there were fourteen well enough to be moved.”

“Seven of the convalescents could’ve gone but asked to stay,” Cas reminds him.

“Mostly because of you,” he replies absently. The crease in his forehead marking his brooding appears as he speaks. His eyes take in each still or restless patient in the ward, a concise survey, and he acknowledges Flower with a terse nod. “But too high a percentage of the power we’re using is routed into Medical to sustain these people. We have to go in to Holbrook and except for those who specifically asked to stay with us, I want the rest transferred to planetside hospitals.”

“No,” Cas answers. He pauses to flick a glance at Flower. She coughs self-consciously, picks up her comm-screen and walks out into the convalescent’s ward.

Owen slinks into the shadows of a far corner.

“No,” Cas repeats. “Maybe some of these people won’t recover, but none of them, even the ones who are recovering, will have anywhere near as good a chance for a normal recovery in a Riven hospital compared to this ship.”

“In your care,” Dean echoes, sounding a little irritated. “Damn it, Cas. How much mercy can you expect this ship to extend to people who may never be able to give service in return?”

“Infinite mercy and infinite compassion,” he says sharply. “That’s my business. You ought to understand why.”

To Owen’s surprise, Dean doesn’t argue. Instead he sighs and drifts across to look at the occupants of the couches, his expression a mask behind which Owen can’t discern his true feelings. Cas doesn’t follow him, except with his eyes.

“In any case,” Cas adds after he’s visited most of the couches, “the care these people will receive once we get back to League space will as far exceed what I can provide in this unit as this units exceeds Holbrook’s hospitals.”

“Cas, we don’t have enough power to find our way by trial and error and what sketchy charts this ship has to League space.”

“I’m not giving up my patients, Dean.”

Dean turns and walks briskly to the door, his face still a mask. “I’ll consider it,” he says brusquely as the door opens to reveal the corridor and Rainbow, “but I may have no choice.”

And he’s gone.

“Dean,” Cas starts, sounding annoyed and imploring at the same time. He lifts a hand to his hair, pulling his fingers through the silken strands with a movement more troubling than angry. After a moment he drops his hand and swivels to look directly at Owen, who’s still huddling in the corner.

Owen emerges cautiously from the shadows.

Cas smiles, a little wryly. “You don’t need to look so apprehensive.”

Owen moves forward to peer at the shifting stats at the base of one of the couches. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs with an irony Owen doesn’t understand, so ignores.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a sneak.”

“You’re not a sneak, Owen. You’re a solitary child.”

Owen feels with those words, their understanding is complete.

“Can we go run the topo—topography program in the geography folder?”

“I’ll bring it up for you,” Cas says, beginning to sound distracted again, “but I can’t stay with you today.”

Owen sighs flamboyantly.

Cas smiles and reaches out to ruffle the boy’s golden hair with surprising tenderness. “It’s a hard and lonely way to grow up, Owen. Remember to be true to yourself.”

Owen looks up at him. “Can I try the advanced program again?”

Cas chuckles. “Don’t push your luck. Yes, you can. Come on.”

  


.oOo.

  


Angel follows Dean’s trail to the mess, but by the time he gets there Dean has already left.

As have most of the others. Jody lingers at a table, turning a ceramic mug slowly around and around with one hand as she waits for Alex to finish up in the galley.

She looks up as Cas comes over to her. “Eight hour rest shift, then we’re going in.”

“Going in?” He’s distracted by the slow dissolution of Dean’s scent on the air. The monotone whirring of the ventilation system hangs like the merest whisper over the sounds of Alex busy at the counter.

“To Holbrook,” Jody answers.

The comm chimes and Benny’s voice sounds over it, repeating what Jody’s said.

“Ah,” Cas says. He nods at her, still preoccupied and moves away, continuing his hunt.

He runs Dean to ground in the captain’s suite on gold deck. The outer room is empty but easily accessible. The door to the inner room has a special lock. Baby has programmed it to only open for Sam and Dean, so he waits and identifies himself before it slides aside to reveal Dean’s most private sanctum.

For some reason the designers— or the original captain—chose to make the room circular. The walls shine a burnish, deep gold, somehow unobtrusively hiding closets, a terminal and other arcana he doesn’t know of. Two chairs, a dark wooden table—looking strangely primitive and yet complementing the tone of the walls—and a large bed complete the room.

Dean’s lying on the bed, ankles crossed, head resting on his linked hands. He’s staring at the ceiling and doesn’t speak as Cas enters and the door whispers shut behind him.

He prowls the room a moment, touching a closet panel so the wall slips aside to reveal empty cupboards and two plain white tunics hanging from a bar. Dean’s scent hasn’t yet permeated the chamber, but after three weeks it’s beginning to. Framingham hadn’t used this suite. Perhaps he’d found it too imposing, but in any case the only lingering aroma is of a woman, long dead, who smells of a dry wit, deep cynicism and unshakable courage. They linger all over the ship, faint but unmistakable. The fragrance of the _Royal Sovereign’s_ original crew, slowly being overlaid by its new inhabitants.

Cas turns from the closet and goes to the bed. He lays down on it, next to Dean, on his side, propping his head up on one hand. “Where’s Baby?”

“On the bridge.” He continues to stare at the ceiling.

He waits out Dean’s silence.

“Did you know,” he starts finally, “the Sta assigned to the ship with Framingham wouldn’t let the Mule into navigation? Of course, they left with Framingham, I suppose it’s as well. I couldn’t keep the Mule down on the lowest deck to appease their prejudices. Despite Jehane’s,” his voice tightens on the name momentarily, “avowed emancipation of the Ridanis, none of them were treated equally. It’s no wonder they all sided with us when it came to mutiny. I was told Jody stopped Rainbow from slugging some guy who’d spat on her once. I’m amazed the _Sovereign_ made it to Arcadia intact in the first place.”

Because Dean seems in the mood to talk, Cas keeps silent.

“I’ve settled on a command structure,” he continues. “I’m going to leave Jody as Commander for the military unit and move Victor to Second Officer, he’s got experience both Sam and I don’t. We’re lacking experienced crew across the board. We need to start intensive training using Baby’s knowledge so we can field a full set of shifts on the bridge, in Engineering and in the green room at the least. With your seven convalescents added to the able bodied, we can cover it. _If_ we can get them trained.”

“What are we going to do when we get to Holbrook?”

“Distribute the Formula.” Dean frowns and finally shifts his head to look at him. “I’m going to ask what’s left of Central’s forces to run with us.”

“Are you really?” He grins, quick and delighted with the audacity of it.

“Short of force, it’s the only way I can figure to get supplies for the long trip, given we’ve got no credit to buy with.”

“Get in trade for a better future,” he murmurs. “I wonder if it’ll work.”

Dean shifts his legs on the bed, crossing his ankles in the opposite direction. “Do you want to go back?” he asks, softly.

“Dean, my love,” he speaks, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t care where I go, as long as—” He stops, thinking better of revealing his hopes and fears too plainly.

But Dean’s eyes on him are clear and suddenly acutely comprehensive and without judgment against everything he knows Cas is. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Dean looks at him a moment longer before he sighs and turns his head once more to stare up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I like this job,” he mutters, sounding cross.

For a moment Cas’ is stunned. Then he understands Dean means being captain of the _Royal Sovereign_ , not him.

He doesn’t seem to need an answer, so Cas doesn’t give him one. He lies, enjoying the intimacy of their mutual silence. In the slow seep of air through the vents, the measured rise and fall of his respiration and the complex bouquet of Dean he takes in with every breath, Cas realizes he is content. It’s a feeling he hasn’t known since his childhood, before his mother and his clan were forced by every good reason—none of which he blames them for—to exile him to his father’s kin.

Dean knows the truth and he’s not rejecting him or using it to control him.

He smiles. He thinks of leaning across to kiss Dean, but there’s time enough for that. Patients who need and benefit from his care wait for him in Medical. Next to him lies a man who’s perfectly happy and perfectly comfortable—and perfectly passionate, at the proper time—when he’s with him.

Cas can’t imagine any greater happiness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secrets that you keep.
> 
> * * *

They take their time circling in, broadcasting their arrival across a wide band, trying not to startle the likely nervous inhabitants of Holbrook and its twin orbiting Stations.

“I’ve got a go ahead from Station Alpha for docking,” Benny reports from comm as they enter orbit.

“Start docking countdown,” Dean replies, expressionless in his chair.

“Hold on.” This from Victor, on scan. “I thought there were only two military ships here. I’ve caught a third in Station Beta’s shadow.”

“Can you get readings?” Dean asks sharply. “Give me what you’ve got.”

A pause while Victor transfers coordinates.

“And we’ve got movement,” he adds suddenly. “I don’t like this.”

Dean curses, hard and abrupt. “Weapons bank up,” he snaps. “Full alert. That’s the _Endeavour_. Why didn’t we pick up any comm-traffic from them?”

“They weren’t broadcasting!” Benny protests. He pales, but quickly regains his color when it becomes apparent Dean accepts his explanation.

“Weapons bank at full,” Mick calls from his console. “But I’m registering considerable power drain on our reserve.”

“We try to bluff,” Dean states. “Open channels, Benny. I want a standard query to the _Endeavour_.”

“Hold on.” Benny punches his channel focus and makes adjustments. “I’ve got comm coming in. Switching to speaker.”

“This is Comrade Trenton commanding the _Endeavour_.” The voice comes through loud and brassy. Benny hastily adjusts the volume. “We’re in control of this system. You’re in illegal possession of a government vessel. Surrender into our custody immediately.”

“Trenton?” Victor mutters. “I don’t remember any Trenton.”

Dean takes a moment, but as the silence lengthens—the _Endeavour_ waiting for a reply—he says in an undertone. “He’s the one who killed Senator Alastair and threw Dorothy’s body in the ocean.”

“Killed who?” Pinto asks sharply, startling Dean as he hoped Pinto wouldn’t hear him, strapped into the pilot’s console. Mercifully, Benny doesn’t repeat his comment.

“We’re down forty percent on weapons,” Mick reports from the bank.

“At this rate we’re either going to lose our engines or the power to do any damage,” Sam announces.

“Cut weapons to minimum. Benny, tell Jody to get her troops in gear for a possible boarding.”

“Another incoming,” replied Benny.

“ _Royal Sovereign_. If you do not reply to this transmission, we will be forced to fire on you. Who is in charge?”

“Pinto, give me a course that’ll allow us to drift right under them without their being able to catch us. Mule, we need the nearest window. We’re going to bluff and run. Benny, relay a message to the _Endeavour_ saying we’re prepared to surrender and ask for terms. Make it as long winded as possible.” He taps the comm for Engineering. “Brian. We’re leaving the system. How much power do we have?”

“Captain,” Brian’s voice sounds nervous and tinny over the comm, “by my calculations we can only accommodate two vectors safely. I wouldn’t risk a third.”

“Get us one now, Brian.” Dean taps off. “Pinto, Mule. Can you get us a vector that is tight and unexpected? If it comes to a real chase, we can’t outrun them.” He fingers the comm again, reaching his cabin. “Baby, I need you on the bridge.” Flicking it off again before hearing the robot’s whistle of assent.

“I’ve got their conditions,” Benny speaks up. “Surrender of the vessel. The following persons to be taken into custody by Comrade Trenton: Dean Smith, the physician Castiel, Sam Wesson, Eugenie Keos Amharat and her biological son Owen and Annie Jones. All other mutineers are to be judged on a case-by-case basis. _Eugenie_? Is that Jody? And Jones? Isn’t Senator Jones the speaker of the Senate?”

“Benny.”

He stops talking.

“Any other conditions?”

“Weren’t those enough?” he’s clearly bewildered by Dean’s question.

“Captain,” Victor interrupts, “I’m reading a detachment from the _Endeavour_. A large shuttle, I believe.”

“Course?”

“Looks like it’s headed this way. I can’t estimate intercept time yet. It’s broadcasting on a scrambled code in our direction.”

“If they fire on us, it’ll be from the _Endeavour_ and I don’t believe they’d risk losing the _Sovereign_ by breaching her. Keep monitoring them, Victor.” Dean studies the screen on his console arm. “Do we have a vector yet?”

“Two hours to the closest window,” hisses the Mule, “but Station Beta is refusing us coordinates.”

The bridge door opens and Baby floats in, singing a three note query.

“Can you make do with Baby?”

The Mule glances at her. Their crest rises enough Dean thinks they find the challenge amusing. “I guarantee nothing.”

“ _I_ can guarantee Comrade Cole Trenton isn’t a man we want to surrender to.” Dean whistles a quick command to Baby and the robot speeds over to plug into the navigation console.

“Without Holbrook Station’s coordinates, the risk to vector is great. Surrender is sometimes preferable to death.”

“In this case,” Dean replies grimly, “for most of us, I suspect surrender _is_ death. I’ll take the vector.”

“Ah.” The exclamation slips smoothly from the Mule. They turn back to the console and start calculating, Baby singing softly next to them.

  


.oOo.

  


Owen finds a corner in Engineering where Brian won’t stumble across him. Paisley knows he’s there, of course, but Paisley understands him and Crystal, the technician who stayed after the mutiny, is a quiet and dutiful worker, not one to question the movements of the ranking mercenary Commander’s only son.

Owen watches them at the great consoles controlling the _Sovereign’s_ engines. He doesn’t like Brian, but he respects his ability to understand engines. It seems just short of miraculous, considering Brian’s youth and ill-temperament. Owen especially dislikes the way Brian treats Paisley and Crystal with a contempt tempered only by the fact he’s got no one with which to replace them. Outside of Engineering, of course, Brian merely ignores the women, being smart enough to realize more public derision wouldn’t be well received by Dean. As far as Owen knows, Paisley’s never complained and Crystal takes her cues from her. Their ability to brush off Brian’s scorn Owen finds even more miraculous than Brian’s genius for engines.

“What’re you doing here?” Brian’s harsh voice startles Owen out of his reverie. “We’ve got an emergency. Now _get out_!”

Owen gets out. Paisley casts him a brief, taut smile as he scuttles past her toward the door, but it’s all she has time for before Brian appears, scolding her as well.

The door slides shut behind Owen, cutting off Brian’s words, leaving him in the hush of iron deck’s corridors. It’s silent down here, because virtually no one except the Engineering techs and the occasional mercenary patrolling the shuttle bays ever come down this far. Even the ghosts, who seem to haunt the ship’s corridors are scarce here, finding more to occupy and recall, higher up.

When he sees a figure hurriedly slip through a far intersection, he thinks, at first, it might be one of the ghosts. They can’t entirely be his imagination, since Cas also knows about them. They’re like faint presences, not so much seen as felt and a few of the stronger ones he’s given names to: Happy, who lives mostly in Medical; Fearful, whose path disappears frequently into the Green Room, where Owen’s not inclined to follow; and Grumpy, who Owen quite likes because he seems to leave a trail of laughter behind him.

But he’s never actually _seen_ one before, so he quietly follows after it, careful to stay unobtrusive.

It leads him to the bay left empty by the forced departure of Framingham and his crew on one of the shuttles. It isn’t until the figure pauses outside the door to the control overlook, looking almost comically furtive before it opens the door and vanishes inside, that Owen realizes who he’s been following.

With anyone else, he’d have been more cautious, but he simply walks in behind her.

“Alex,” he asks as he crosses the threshold, “what are you doing?”

She gasps, spinning around, but by then it’s obvious. The great hold doors are parting to reveal the airless black of space and one shuttle, brilliant in the sun’s reflective light, poised to enter. A light on the comm starts to blink a furious red, but Alex ignores it.

“Who’s that?” Owen asks. “Brian said we have an emergency. Have they come to help us?”

Alex doesn’t answer. Instead, she starts madly tapping override commands into the console and even manually locks the overlook door leading to the corridor. Then she extends the hatchway to the shuttle, which has angled precisely in and settled on the hangar pad.

Intrigued, Owen reaches out and taps the ship’s comm.

“—who the hell is down there?” sounds Dean’s voice, tight and angry.

“We have all entrances covered and have manually locked all cargo doors from the outside. But the overlook is sealed. I’m concentrating my people there.”

“Alex,” Owen says, “that’s Momma out there. Shouldn’t we let her in?”

“ _No_ ,” is all she says but she delivers it in such a cold voice, so uncharacteristic of Alex, Owen doesn’t argue. The frightened yet resolute look on her face scares him. He retreats to a corner to wait. She can’t possibly remain so utterly changed forever.

She shuts off the comm and links up the hatchway. Within moments troops emerge, too many to all fit in the overlook. One strips off his face gear. He has tiny eyes in a round face and his expression terrifies Owen.

“Is this your way of betraying us?” he snaps at Alex.

She shrinks before him, looking even more unsure of herself and yet still determined.

“No, Comrade Trenton,” she speaks, so quietly Owen can barely make out her voice. “I would never betray Jehane.”

The way she says the name has a flavor, a passion, which confuses Owen, because he’s never heard her speak so ardently about, or to, anyone.

“We’ve been monitoring ship’s comm,” Comrade Trenton replies mocking her. “There’s a tidy selection of mercenaries outside the door, nicely set up, I’m sure, to rip us to pieces as we come through.”

“Who’s this?” asks one of the other soldiers, a woman with red hair.

Both Trenton and Alex swing to stare at Owen.

“Who is it?” Trenton barks. His interest petrifies Owen.

Alex starts to speak, stops, wrings her hands and turns away. “It’s Jody’s boy,” she whispers.

“Good work,” Trenton speaks, not making it much of a compliment. With abrupt speed, he reaches out and grabs Owen, yanking him in tight against his uniform. Drawing his pistol, he presses the muzzle against the boy’s temple.

“Let’s go,” he says. “They won’t fire on us if we have hostages. Bradbury.” He nods at the woman who’d first noticed Owen. “Take the woman.”

“Comrade Trenton,” she protests. “You can’t put a child at risk like that. What if they shoot him?”

“Are you disputing my command?” His tone is harsh and challenging.

“No, Comrade. Of course not.”

“You said he wouldn’t be hurt!” Alex cries.

“I think it unlikely anyone’ll fire on him,” Trenton answers. “I’m only doing this to make sure there’s as little bloodshed as possible. Surely you understand?”

Alex looks uncertain. Comrade Bradbury looks skeptical.

“Very well,” Trenton snaps, impatient with this delay. “Form up. We’re going out. Disarm and detain their mercenaries, sweep for crew, kill if you have to and merge on the bridge. Is that clear?”

Everyone nods. Trenton waits an extra moment, eyes tight on Comrade Bradbury.

“Yes, Comrade,” she replies, expressionless.

Owen’s too shocked and too horrified by Alex’s betrayal and the hard circle of the pistol pressing against his hair, to fight or even to ask why.

  


.oOo.

  


Cas understands things have gone quite badly when Jody comes over comm to say she’s retreating without firing because the boarding party are holding Alex and Owen as hostages. Her normally calm voice holds a definite tremor.

Cas wonders for a moment if Dean’s going to order Jody to fire anyway, but he only makes the cryptic reply. “Lock coordinates to Engineering.”

Securing all patients, he goes to the lab and locks away his supplies of the Miescher Formula and because he always—at any place he spends more than an hour’s time in—identifies a bolt hole, he hides himself there and waits, touching briefly each of the weapons he’s stored here. All are operational.

He scents Jody’s mercenaries first. They smell scared and confused as they retreat higher and higher up. Jody he doesn’t detect.

They’re followed not long after by the first wave of Jehane’s troops, herding those few of the crew who have been left unarmed. Brian and Crystal from Engineering, Bela Talbot from the Main Computer banks. Soon enough they pass through Medical and collect Flower.

It’s easy enough to wait them out and then follow after they’ve left, thus giving Dean the backup he’ll need. Except they hold a wild card he doesn’t expect. Eight come in, Alex with them.

“Then he must be here still,” she’s saying to a stocky man whom Cas quickly identifies as Kuan-yin’s sidekick from the _Endeavour_. “If he isn’t in the captain’s cabin. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Owen once said he has a hiding place here.”

“Spread out and give yourselves cover,” orders Trenton to his soldiers. “We’ll wait him out.”

Cas doesn’t bother to dwell on how Owen discovered his bolt hole. The boy knows the ship probably better than anyone. He does calculate the amount of damage he can do, but Trenton’s soldiers are trained enough to cover each other, as well as the room, and Trenton leaves with Alex before he can make a choice.

He stows the weapons farther back and surrenders himself. As they march him up to gold deck and into the bridge, he wonders what Singer would’ve done in the same situation. But whatever Cas’ skills are as a saboteur and terrorist—which are not inconsiderable—his real expertise has always been healing.

It’s no relief to discover, on reaching gold deck, they could’ve used Singer. Whether through the shock of Alex’s betrayal, or the use of hostages, or because of his sheer ruthless efficiency, Comrade Trenton has control of the bridge. As Cas’ herded in, he’s disposing of the prisoners.

“Seal all the tattoos in one detention block for now. Except for the Engineering tech, we’ll need both Engineering techs and the Computer tech until we get replacement crew.”

Cas smells blood, he has to look around to find where it’s coming from. Jody is laying on the floor between Sam and the nav console. She’s got blood on her face and one of her arms is lying at a bad angle. She stirs, but doesn’t moan, still conscious. On the opposite side of the bridge, Alex stares in horror. Owen, held by a rough looking trooper, looks paralyzed by his mother’s injury.

The bridge clears somewhat as half the guards evict people and leave with them, revealing Dean standing isolated by the captain’s console, a soldier on either side of him. He looks unhurt. His expression, when he sees Cas, doesn’t change, it remains emotionless.

“I’m a doctor,” Cas speaks easily into the silence left by the departure of the others. “May I see to the wounded woman?”

“No,” Trenton says. “I don’t waste medical help on people I have orders to kill.”

Alex gasps audibly, going white. She staggers slightly, catching herself on the back of the chair Victor’s sitting in. A soldier moves to grab her arm.

“But you said,” she says, her voice as much breath as vibration, “no one was to be hurt. _He_ promised me.” By the tone of her voice, there can be no doubt, _he_ is Alexander Jehane.

Trenton seems not to hear her. He looks over the bridge crew—Sam, Victor, Mick, Benny, Pinto, the Mule and Baby—with a precise eye, like he’s measuring what to do with them.

“Comrade Bradbury,” he orders. “Get on comm and call the _Endeavour_ in. I want a bridge crew waiting to replace these as soon as they can board.”

Comrade Bradbury moves to comm. Benny, glancing up at her set face and then at the dozen or more of soldiers still crowding the bridge, moves aside to let her at the controls.

Dean doesn’t move, except to turn his head enough to see the Mule. They sit quite still at the nav console, one hand covering the other. Baby hovers beside them below the level of the counter, her curve pressing up against the Mule.

It seems to Cas some message passes between the two he can’t read. The Mule hisses slightly. Pinto, hidden by the stillstrap, stares straight ahead. If he’s watching the numbers click across the chin harness of the strap, it’s not apparent.

Trenton, too, glances that way. “Turn the nav console off,” he orders. The soldier standing by navigation reaches out and flips the auto nav to manual.

Dean’s still looking at the Mule. His expression doesn’t change. The Mule’s crest rises and falls, rustling and they remove their hands from the console and rest them as if resigned on Baby’s exposed keypad.

Jody stirs again. Her breathing is ragged but even. Trenton, secure now, glares at the mercenary.

“Kill her first, then the boy,” he orders, cool now that he’s totally in control.

On Pinto’s chin strap, red numbers still click across the tiny screen.

“Comrade!” protests Bradbury, standing up from the comm-station. “I wasn’t informed of these orders. Killing children is _not_ what I became a Jehanist for.”

“Are you challenging me, Comrade?” Trenton demands, his voice as hard as his eyes. “You know the punishment for insubordination.”

“That child isn’t old enough to have been party to this mutiny. He can’t be held accountable.”

Alex breaks free of the soldier who’s been holding her arm. “But you _said_ no one would be hurt!” she cries, flinging herself at Trenton. “You lied to me!”

Trenton slaps her full in the face. She staggers and Trenton regards her with cool disdain. “Kill her as well,” he says calmly.

“But you can’t—” The extent of his betrayal shocks Alex into silence for a moment. She holds one hand against the reddening patch where he hit her. “You _have_ to know I got a message from Jehane—he’s sending someone to bring me to him. You can’t defy Jehane’s orders.”

Trenton shrugs, unconcerned. “It might be true he meant to send someone for you. You’re pretty enough. But my orders didn’t come from Jehane.” It’s said so emotionlessly it’s clearly true.

Alex slumps forward, defeated by Cole’s dispassion, and starts to cry. “Jody,” she sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Who did your orders come from?” Dean asks. The calmness of his voice seems at odds with the tense bridge.

Trenton smiles. He makes it an ugly expression. “Comrade Kuan-yin sent us.”

“Of course,” Dean echoes. His head’s still angled to keep the Mule in his peripheral vision. “With orders to kill the six of us and deal with the rest as you see fit.”

“Exactly. I’m glad we understand each other, Comrade Smith.”

“Winchester,” Dean says. “My name’s Winchester.”

“Comrade Trenton!” the soldier by nav calls, surprised. He’s staring at Pinto in his stillstrap. “They’re still running nav.”

“I told you to turn the console off,” Trenton bites out.

“But Comrade, I _did_ ,” insists the soldier.

“Then it’s impossible,” Comrade Bradbury states. “You can’t run vectors on manual.”

In two strides Trenton closes the distance between himself and Dean and wrenches his arm up behind his back. Dean starts to twist away.

“Kill the other five,” Trenton orders. Dean freezes. 

“Wait—” Comrade Bradbury yells. The soldiers hesitate.

Trenton presses the muzzle of his pistol against Dean’s ear. “Take this ship off nav.”

In the instant of indecision before anyone can act, the air rank with the scents of confusion and fear, stained with the salt of Alex’s tears and the heavy aroma of Jody’s blood and the unexpected pungency of Trenton’s rabid hatred, Castiel can’t smell any emotion from Dean at all. It’s like he’s already dead, his essence fled, gone, torn from Cas forever.

The horror of losing Dean paralyzes him. He doesn’t even act when two soldiers put their hands on him, when he feels the shift of their bodies as they slowly—or slowly it seems to him, in this moment, strung out beyond ordinary time—raise their weapons. The ghosts of the _Royal Sovereign’s_ lost crew crowd the bridge, their fragrance overwhelming him, tenuous and yet stronger now than they’ve ever been before.

Dean catches Castiel’s eyes with his own and blinks twice, deliberately. The pistol against his head smells of cold, unfeeling steel. Dean’s hair, grown unruly and in need of a trim, hides the muzzle where Trenton holds it behind Dean’s ear.

“Five seven two,” hisses the Mule. “ _Break_.”

“You bastard!”

They go through right as Trenton pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A web of lies is a fragile thing.
> 
> * * *

 

> _Blood Blood Blood Agony Howl Pain Blackness Blood Blood_

And they come out.

A sharp crack echoes through the bridge as the Mule hisses. “Perfect.”

Silence spreads across the bridge.

Pinto unclips his chin harness and twists to look at the same time the Mule turns in their chair.

It’s hard to make sense of what’s on the bridge. The first movement with form is Dean slowly getting to his feet. His face is pale with shock. Blood spatters his clothing. He first sees Pinto, then the Mule and lastly Baby and, like they give him stability, he takes one step forward and stares around the bridge.

The step brings his foot into a heavy obstacle. As one he, the Mule and Pinto look down. Baby sings something muted.

It’s Comrade Trenton’s body. Scarlet stains his Jehanist whites. His throat’s been ripped open. Blood still oozes, pooling in the crook of a bent arm.

Someone starts retching violently. Jody moans and stirs. Sam falls to his knees beside her as a tiny voice calls, “Momma,” and starts crying.

Dean eases his boot away from Trenton’s corpse and turns slowly to survey what lies about him. Alex’s standing in blank-faced shock, Owen sobbing beside her. Victor’s gripping the back of his chair so hard his knuckles are mottling. Jody’s crumpled under one console, with Sam lifting her head into his lap. Mick’s fainted and Benny’s the one throwing up.

Bodies litter the floor, the deck awash in blood. It’s hard to imagine fifteen bodies can produce so much of it.

All the soldiers are dead. Their throats have been ripped out.

No, not all.

By Benny, Angel stands, holding the woman, Bradbury by a portion of her tunic. Her face has a sheen of terror. She’s too paralyzed by fear and shock to move. Her eyes are locked on Angel’s face like any helpless being staring at the monster who holds them ensnared.

Angel’s expression is too blank to be human. It’s got an alien cast, like some other creature possesses him. He looks horrifying. His clothes bear huge spatters of blood. His hands are red. As Dean watches, a single drop coalesces off one palm and falls to shatter on the floor. More red spatters his blue hair, like some new fashionable pattern. But worst of all, his face is coated with it, fresh blood, most of it around his mouth.

“She smells of Dorothy,” he says, like he’s explaining something, his voice both hoarsely his own and yet entirely foreign. He opens his hand releasing her jacket and without a sound collapses unconscious on the floor.

Comrade Bradbury starts to shake and cough and then cry uncontrollably. But she remains standing, because to sink down would bring her closer to Angel and she doesn’t have the ability to move farther away from him.

The Mule hisses, a long, sibilant sound expressing their sheer disbelief and revulsion.

Dean takes another step, back to the captain’s chair and the ship’s comm.

“To those soldiers under Comrade Trenton’s command still remaining on this ship. This is Captain Winchester speaking. Your commander is dead. Put down your weapons and return to your shuttle. If you do so without harming any of my crew, or any part of my ship, we’ll let you leave unharmed. If you do not, at whatever cost to us, we will kill you.”

A pause, a crackle and reply. “Min Winchester? Be it truly you? This be Paisley. I be still in Engineering. I hid.”

“Paisley?” Dean glances at Pinto. “Did you run the vector coordinates through Engineering?”

“Yes, min.”

Dean doesn’t reply for a moment. Pinto smiles slightly. The Mule hisses, Sta-ish laughter.

“Damn my eyes,” Dean murmurs. “Stay at your station, Paisley. Well done.” He flips comm to all-channels and waits for what’s left of the Jehanist troopers to reply. “Victor, collect their guns. Starting with _her_.” He makes an economical gesture toward Comrade Bradbury.

Looking grim and not a little queasy, Victor starts to pick his way through the corpses.

“Benny.”

He looks up at the sound of Dean’s voice, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His eyes look glazed.

“Help Sam with Jody.”

“But—”

“ _Benny_.”

Keeping his eyes averted from Cas’ unconscious form, he complies.

“Mule. Carry Cas to my cabin. Clean him up as best you can.” As the Mule stands up, showing no expression whatsoever at the command, he reconsiders. “Take Sam and Pinto as guards. Sam, grab weapons and stay armed. Baby, monitor all systems.”

Ship’s comm snaps to life.

“Captain? This be Rainbow. Be you there?”

“Yes. What’s your status?”

“Ya Comrades gave theyselves up, Captain. We got ya weapons. There be twelve here. Shall we kill them?”

“No. Detail a group to escort them to their shuttle and seal them in. I want you and the others to first make sure the rest of our crew are safe and return them to their stations. I need Flower up here and you and as many as you can spare from guarding the shuttle. We’ll have two prisoners for detention and some rather ugly,” he hesitates and refrains from glancing around the bridge, “cleanup to do.”

“Sure, Captain,” Rainbow responds. Her voice sounds incongruously cheerful over comm. “We got ya bastards, didna we?”

“Get moving,” Dean orders, because to reply to Rainbow’s question is too painful. “Victor,” he continues, “take Alex and Comrade Bradbury to detention. I’ll want to speak with them later.”

Alex starts to cry again, but she doesn’t resist as Victor takes her arm—none too gently—and leads her away. Comrade Bradbury follows dully, looking relieved if anything to be escaping the carnage.

Owen gives Alex a long, piercing stare as she leaves. She doesn’t look at him or at anyone else. Once the bridge doors sigh together, concealing her, Owen sidles carefully around the bodies and kneels next to Benny beside his mother. Doesn’t say a word, just crouches there, face pale and frightened.

Benny’s turned his back on the careless litter of death behind him as he checks over Jody’s injuries, but he spares a glance at Owen—risking a glimpse of the dead soldiers—and pats the boy with tentative solicitude on one arm. “She’ll be all right,” he murmurs. “A couple days’ rest and this arm’ll heal.”

“But all the blood…” Owen whispers.

Benny winces and then realizes the boy means on his mother’s head and face. “Head wounds always bleed a lot,” he explains and winces again, thinking of their throats. Unconsciously, he lifts a hand to brush at his own neck and he shudders.

“I need to get her down to Medical,” he calls, desperately wanting to get off of the bridge. “We’ll have to observe for concussion.”

Owen wipes away tears with the back of one hand.

“Holy Void.” Mick’s finally getting his first unadulterated look at the bridge. “What happened?”

“Mick.” Dean’s voice is taut. “Help Benny get Jody to Medical. Take Owen with you.”

In his haste to get out as quickly as possible, Mick doesn’t even bother to reply.

After they leave, Dean’s alone with Baby and fifteen mutilated, bloody corpses. The bridge reeks of death. He’s almost afraid to move from his haven in the center of the bridge.

“I can’t believe he had _this_ in him,” he whispers. “What kind of creatures are they?”

Baby sings softly.

_“I got my finger on the trigger_  
_But I don't know who to trust_  
_When I look into your eyes_  
_There's just devils and dust_  
_We're a long, long way from home, Bobby_  
_Home's a long, long way from us_  
_I feel a dirty wind blowing_  
_Devils and dust”_

On her final note the doors open to reveal Rainbow and six Ridanis in full mercenary gear. Rainbow takes a step in, then stops, staring. The others crowd up behind her.

“What happened?” she asks, in awe of the savagery of the scene.

“I underestimated him,” Dean says, thinking of his signal to Castiel—he’d meant: disable them while we’re in the window. “I never meant this to happen.”

Rainbow shakes her head. “I seen it in his eyes, min,” she says sagely. “He were ya hard type, that one. It be what he meant to do to us, bain’t it? I say they deserved it, ya square.”

Behind her, the other Ridanis murmur agreement. Dean realizes belatedly Rainbow’s talking about Trenton, not Cas and finds he can’t work out what to say.

“Sure, Captain,” Rainbow continues, a little solicitously. “Be it sure you got ya other arrangements to work out. I’ll call Diamond, we can clean this up. Sure and we hae seen as bad, most of us, in our time. Ya Immortals done as bad to us tattoos at Richmond and Paddington Station.”

“You can’t have been there,” Dean protests, remembering Richmond. Remembering Cas at the clinic, healing with the same sure touch with which he kills.

Rainbow shrugs. “We hear.”

The Ridanis step aside and it takes him a moment to realize they mean for him to leave, to spare him the sight of their cleaning up. With effort he picks a careful path around the bodies. Pausing by Rainbow, Dean gives her a brief nod. Rainbow returns the nod and he leaves.

Dean goes straight to the captain’s suite, not wanting to see how the Ridanis chose to dispose of the remains. Inside, he finds Sam and Pinto—both armed—and the Mule, sitting uncomfortably in the couch and chair furnishing the outer room.

“Where is he?” he asks.

“Unconscious,” the Mule replies, drawing the word out into a long, sibilant flowering on the _s_. “Sam and I cleaned him up as best we could and discarded his clothing. We left him on your bed.”

Sam speaks. “Void bless us, I’ve never seen anything so horrible.” Dean realizes he’s talking about the bridge, but not before his inner hackles rise thinking his brother is talking about Cas.

“Remember,” Pinto says, drawling slightly, “we would’ve all been dead. Between you and me, I’ll take that trade any day.”

“He’s got some strange ability that allows him to,” Sam pauses, struggling for a word to embody a concept none of them truly believed in, “ _exist_ inside a window. He damn well could’ve disarmed them, couldn’t he?”

“I’m _glad_ he killed them,” Pinto replies with unexpected fierceness. “Trenton’s the one who killed my father, isn’t he?” He looks at Dean for confirmation, but Sam replies instead, harsh words provoking an equally heated response from Pinto. Dean hears only the tone, not their words, because a sudden flood of memory of the last moments before they’d gone through the window stuns him. Trenton had killed him.

Pinto stops talking. They all stop talking, seeing his face.

Sam stands up. “Do you need to sit down?”

Dean lets Sam guide him to the chair and sits down. “He killed me,” he says, dazed by the discovery. “He fired the pistol. I should be dead.”

“Who killed you?” Pinto asks.

“Trenton,” Sam says slowly, trying himself to recall the sequence of events. “I knew he had the gun against your head.”

“Ah.” The flow of the exclamation gives it a sage flavor. “We’ve overlooked the obvious conclusion,” the Mule continues, having gained their attention. “Cas _also_ thinks you’re dead. It would explain the—severity of his reaction. He’s not particularly stable and his attachment to you is deeper than most. He’s not fully human after all.”

Sam looks away and Dean doesn’t reply.

Pinto blinks, looking confused. “What do you mean? He’s not ‘fully human.’”

The Mule smiles, a peculiarly out-of-place expression on their half-Sta face. “Like recognizes like,” they reply. “I knew the moment I met Cas he is, as I am, a half-breed.” They turn their eyes from Pinto’s disbelieving face to Dean’s quiet one. “But more than that, I cannot answer.”

Dean sits, remembering the bridge of Ellen’s ship, where the aliens… where the Je’jiri ran their prey to ground.

The others wait. Eventually it becomes clear to him they expect an explanation and, in the face of the circumstances, they deserve one. Sam knows of course, but Dean also knows Sam won’t speak for him.

“I only found out myself,” he starts, “after Guildford. His father was human. His mother an alien species called Je’jiri. They’re hunters. I saw them…” He stops, meeting Sam’s eyes. He’s unwilling to share the memory of what happened on Ellen’s bridge again. Sam’s nod would be invisible to anyone else in the room. “I saw them,” he repeats, ending the sentence there. “They’re not like us.”

“Enough like us,” Pinto says, “that mating can produce a child.”

“I don’t know how that works—how usual it is in League space to find half-breeds. But not very usual, I don’t think. The Je’jiri don’t approve of it.” The comment seems ridiculous even to his ears, a gross understatement of the bloody aftermath of their hunt. The man who’d been killed on the _Roadhouse_ hadn’t looked so different from Comrade Trenton and his compatriots.

“Is that why Cas’ so unstable?” Pinto asks, continuing to press the issue.

Dean looks directly at him. “Yes. That’s why. His attachment to me isn’t,” Dean hesitates, “it isn’t a _human_ attachment. That’s why I can’t abandon him.”

“So you expect us to continue serving on this ship with him running loose?” Pinto’s voice is rough. “After what we’ve seen him do?”

“I’m not sure he shouldn’t be locked up,” Sam speaks, finding his voice. “I almost have sympathy for Benny.”

The Mule hisses slightly, laughing.

Dean stands up. “All right. I’ll agree to keeping him quarantined in my cabin until we get to League space, where I hope we can find a doctor, someone who knows more about this than we do. The lock’s manually coded only to Sam’s and my imprints in any case. Whatever else he can do, I don’t think Cas can walk through walls.” He walks across the room to the door leading to the inner chamber.

“You’re not going in there?” Pinto asks, amazed and horrified at once. “ _Alone_?”

“He won’t hurt me. It’s the one thing I’m sure of.” He pauses before touching the panel and opening the door. “Sam can you find Victor and ask him to escort Alex up here? I’m going to want to talk to her after I check on Cas.”

“Do you wish company?” the Mule asks unexpectedly.

He shakes his head. “No. Thank you. This is best done alone.” He touches the panel and steps inside the other room.

The door shuts behind him. Cas lies on the bed. At first Dean thinks he’s asleep, but as he watches Cas shifts, muttering words in too low a voice for Dean to make out.

He approaches the foot of the bed cautiously. Cas’ eyes are shut. His head turns on the coverlet. Muted red still tips his hair and his fingers. A slight stain streaks his jaw right below his mouth. They’d put him in a clean white tunic and trousers and he seems unnaturally pale against the stark fabric. Dean’s never seen him so pale before.

He’s about to speak his name, softly, when Cas sits up, so suddenly Dean jumps back, bracing himself.

“Dean!” he cries.

Dean pauses when he realizes Cas doesn’t see him, that he’s looking at something, some vision he alone can see. He’s not aware of Dean at all.

“‘It was Icarus’ love of Apollo that drew him ever higher, but before he could feel his lovers embrace, the wax on unsafe wings melted plunging Icarus into the sea.’”

Dean’s got no idea who Cas thinks he’s talking to. His eyes are open but they’re focusing on a spot halfway between the bed and the wall. His voice is low with an edge in it, he’s clinging to the last vestiges of calm.

“‘Apollo sets every night looking for his love.’”

“Cas?” Dean whispers. He takes a step toward him.

“There’s no water on Betaos. Only sand. But it got sticky when her blood seeped into it. It gave off a sweet smell, that combination. No one could ever explain to me why.”

“Cas?”

He continues, on and on, describing incidental details about a place called Betaos and then another place, called Launceston and a room, the texture of a chair, the smell of spring flowers opening in the cool morning air. Mixed with the scent of death.

Dean crawls onto the bed, reaching out and cupping Cas’ face in his hands.

“Cas.” He’s more scared by Cas’ complete non-recognition of him than by anything else. Violence, accusations, pleas, he could’ve dealt with. But now Dean’s afraid Cas has lost his mind.

Cas doesn’t respond to Dean’s touch, not even when he puts him into his arms. He continues to talk, gesturing with his hands as he describes more precise details, mostly of scents, to his unseen audience.

Dean lets go of him, because it’s too painful to think Cas doesn’t know him. To be so easily eliminated from Cas’ world. It hurts. Worse than a physical wound, because after all this time, Dean still hasn’t brought himself to the conscious point of admitting how much Cas means to him. Now it may be too late to make a difference.

Dean’s been sheltering Cas all this time, shielding him from the consequences of his attacks on Benny, from the murder of Nick—the asteroid miner who’d once been Dean’s lover—for the oldest reason. Dean loves him. He wants to scream it, but he no longer has the luxury.

At Richmond clinic Dean’s tears—unplanned, surprising even him—made Cas come with him. He’d said Dean would be better off without him. Maybe it’s true. But maybe _Cas_ would’ve been better off staying there, continuing his work unconstrained by attachments. And yet—

“Cas.” He tries one more time.

He continues talking like he didn’t hear Dean. His speech deteriorating into a language Dean can’t understand, sprinkled with words he does. He steps back to the door, laying a hand on the panel.

Cas stops midsentence looking straight at Dean. He takes his hand off the panel, feeling a sudden thrill of relief.

“Don’t lock me up.” He speaks to him as he would to any unsympathetic stranger. “Please. Don’t lock me up.” He begs, sounding very young and frightened.

“It’s only for a little while.” Dean moves toward him. “I’ll be here with you, as often as I can Cas, but you gotta understand—”

“Don’t lock me up. Please.” He repeats the same phrase from his past that Dean’s movement to the door triggered. Like a broken recording or the decaying loop of the _Royal Sovereign’s_ distress beacon. He’s not talking to Dean at all. “Don’t lock me up. Please. Don’t lock me up.”

Dean has to look away. It’s too painful watching him deteriorate into someone confused, reduced to pleading. It’s like Cas isn’t even in the room with him anymore.

“Don’t lock me up. Please.”

In any case, Dean doesn’t have choice.

“I’m sorry,” Dean tells him as he presses the panel and leaves the room, coding it to lock behind him.

In the outer room, the Mule still sits, waiting. Mercifully, they say nothing. Pinto has left. Before Dean has a chance to recover, the door slips aside admitting Victor and Alex.

“Sam stayed in detention watching the other one.” Victor informs Dean as he follows Alex into the room.

Alex’s eyes are red and puffy. She’s huddled in against herself. Small to begin with, she seems on the verge of collapsing into nothing. She doesn’t sit until Dean motions her to the chair, where she grips her knees, shoulders hunched, head down.

At a nod from Dean, Victor and the Mule leave. Dean remains standing.

“They won’t tell me how Jody is,” Alex says at last, her voice so faint it dissolves in the hush of the cabin.

“You think you deserve to know?” Dean asks coldly.

Alex trembles, shrinking and puts a hand up to cover her eyes. She lowers it after a moment, but still stares at the floor. “No,” she murmurs. “I don’t deserve to know.” She stops, but there’s such a palpable air of her being about to go on, given enough resolve, that Dean keeps silent.

“They said they just meant to impound the ship, take everyone back to Arcadia to appear before a court. It’s the way it worked before, in military matters. My mother often dealt with the military arm and any soldier, whatever their rank, they were always put before a fair court.”

Alex pauses, catching her breath after this first rush and looks up at Dean like she’s hoping the matter’s now explained.

“I don’t understand.” Dean paces across the room. “If you didn’t agree with the mutiny in the first place, why didn’t you ask to go with Framingham and the others when we put them off the ship? Fair court or not, I think you know mutiny is comparable to treason and the penalty is death.”

Alex doesn’t reply immediately. She shrinks farther into the couch, her dark hair screening her face. “They said…” she starts and falters. Her voice so faint Dean has to approach the edge of the couch to hear her. “They said Jehane sent them, to bring me back to him. He sent me a private message, while we were in orbit around Arcadia. Before your accident. Before Central fell.

“He said he’d send for me when he controlled the planet. He wanted me to be his—” Her voice catches, but she controls the impulse to cry. “To be his consort.” The words, or some memory of Jehane or his message, seem to give her strength. “But I didn’t hear anything else from him and then Pinto and Paisley brought you back and you were badly hurt. They said Jehane tried to kill you, but…”

“But you didn’t believe them,” Dean says, feeling tired. He wonders if Alex’s obvious and long-repressed love for Jehane blinded her as thoroughly as Dorothy’s idealism blinded him.

“No,” Alex admits, sounding strangely matter of fact. “Someone else, one of his lieutenants, might have tried. I could believe that, but not Jehane.”

Dean smiles wryly. “Well, I’ll say this for him, he was sincerely sorry.”

Alex glances up. A surge of anger sparks in her expression, like she’s about to argue with this assertion and then she thinks better of it and lowers her eyes to stare at the floor again.

“Then the mutiny came,” Alex continues. “I couldn’t stop it, not by myself and Jody…” for a moment she looks as stubborn as Paisley, “I _do_ love Jody, for everything she’s done for me.” She stops, waiting for Dean to dispute the fact. But Dean can only turn away, glad Jody’s not here to discover Alex’s love for her springs out of gratitude.

“I wanted Jody to have a home,” Alex insists. “I wouldn’t have left her without one. When I found out Jehane was Mendi, I could’ve gotten a message to him. But I wouldn’t have left her without a home, a family. She has that now. There’s no reason I can’t go back to him.”

Dean turns sharply back. Alex betrayed Jody, Owen and the entire crew. But it’s the thought of Alex’s actions causing the events leading to Cas being locked in the next room, the possibility his reaction in the heat of the moment when he believed Dean dead drove him insane… And Alex is calmly sitting there so blithely forgetting what she’d seen on the bridge—

An abrupt surge of physical anger rips through Dean. Turning, he sees Alex’s face. The animation, all unconscious, lighting Alex’s face as the young woman contemplates her return to Jehane tempers Dean’s anger. He himself acted impulsively, going into a riot at Richmond to find Cas. It’s no excuse and yet he recognizes there are times when emotion overwhelms rationality.

Sometimes it leads to great victories. Sometimes disaster. He remembers the look he saw on Alexander Jehane’s face when he’d seen Alex again on Guildford. Sweetness isn’t a trait he’d have identified in Jehane, but that one time? That one time, the way he’d commented on Alex’s beauty, Dean would’ve called him tender. The full force of what could have been the only authentic emotion Alexander Jehane has ever allowed himself to feel would be hard to resist. Dean can’t bring himself to vent his fury on Alex.

“If you did go back to Jehane, what makes you think his lieutenant Kuan-yin—who, according to Comrade Trenton is the person who arranged for our deaths, all our deaths, _yours_ and Owen’s too—won’t try and kill you again? And succeed next time?”

There’s a slight chime from the door and it slips open to reveal Jody. The mercenary’s arm is in a sling, bound to her chest. Her face, although clean, is bruised and swollen.

Alex’s back is to the door. “Jehane will protect me,” she says firmly. She turns her head. “Jody!” And stands up.

Jody’s expression, beneath the bruises, is a mask, taut with control. “You’re leaving with the survivors,” she says at last, like she’s just realizing it. “Back to the _Endeavour_.” Behind her, in the corridor, Owen loiters, and behind him stands Victor, still armed.

“Sit down,” Dean says, gesturing to the chair.

“I’d rather not,” Jody replies.

“Jody,” Alex starts, pleading, “I never meant—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jody snaps, losing her temper. “You made it pretty damn obvious when you let Trenton on board. You almost killed my son.”

“I couldn’t have known,” Alex exclaims, defending herself with anger. Behind Victor, two Ridanis pass carrying a stretcher. A thin plastic sheet covers the body lying on it. “ _You don’t understand_.”

“You’re wrong.” Jody’s voice is calm again. She shifts and winces, some pain in her body aggravated by her new stance. “I’d have done the same thing, for my daughter.”

Alex starts crying, silently, with dignity, but tears slip down her face, running off her cheeks and jaw to wet her collar. Jody’s lack of reaction is more disconcerting to Dean than her previous anger.

“You’d better go,” Dean tells Alex. “Victor’ll escort you. Collect your belongings then get the shuttle.”

Alex seems not to have heard him. “Don’t hate me, Jody,” she asks, soft.

Jody turns her face away. “I don’t hate you, Alex,” she replies, as soft.

Without looking at anyone else, Alex walks out of the room. Owen backs away from her. Alex’s shoulders shake, like his tiny, final rejection breaks her composure.

Victor, face painfully blank, leads her away. The veil of her dark hair is the last sight Dean has of her.

“Jody.” Dean says the name tentatively.

“Not now.” Jody’s voice is drawn tight with anguish. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, for a long space of time. The angle of her head highlights a fresh cut, running from the corner of one eye to the cheek beneath, one more legacy of Trenton’s short stay. Finally she turns and without a word goes out into the corridor, taking Owen’s hand and walks away.

Diamond appears in the doorway, hesitating. She holds a pistol in one hand, by the barrel.

Dean motions her in. “What’s that? I thought Victor collected all their guns.”

“We found ya one, Captain,” Diamond explains, holding the pistol out. “It were in the back corner by ya life support console. Some person flung it so hard it dented ya console. Can’t have come there any other way, we reckoned by seeing where it lay.” She shrugs. “I thought you might wish to see it.”

“No.” Dean takes a step back, realizing with sudden revulsion this dull, inert thing must be Trenton’s pistol, flung so far and so hard away from him in the infinity of time given Cas inside the window. “No,” he echoes. “Take it away.”

With a brisk nod, Diamond retreats. The door shuts behind her, leaving Dean alone in the captain’s suite.

The silence is too oppressive. He returns to the other room to check on Cas. He doesn’t respond to Dean’s entrance. He lies still on the bed, eyes open and dilated. His breathing seems regular, but it’s shallow. Frightened, Dean tries to find his pulse. It’s faint and slow. His skin seems uncomfortably cool to Dean’s touch.

He jumps up and slaps the comm. Within minutes Flower arrives. Her look of concern, incongruous against the wild cheerfulness of the tattoos decorating her face and hands, deepens as she examines him. At last she looks up at Dean.

“I think he be gone catatonic, min Winchester. There be nothing I can do, but watch him and keep him in fluids.”

“What’ve I done?” whispers Dean.

“B’ain’t nothing you done, Captain,” Flower answers, puzzled. “It be ya shock, likely. It be up to him to come out when his mind can face up to what he done, back there. You just mun be ya patient.”

“My best virtue,” Dean mutters, but Flower doesn’t get the joke. She leaves through the still open door and Dean sits on the edge of the bed, staring at Cas’ inert form. After a moment he starts singing one of Baby’s songs.

_“Another year has passed me by_  
_Still I look a myself and cry_  
_What kind of man have I become?_  
_All of the years I've spent in search of myself_  
_And I'm still in the dark_  
_'Cause I can't seem to find the light alone”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Devils & Dust** by _Bruce Springsteen_.  
>  **Man In The Wilderness** by _Styx_.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This was easily the single hardest chapter to write throughout this entire series. The hardest scene (to write) being between the Mule, Pinto, Sam and Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way forward, is sometimes the way back.
> 
> * * *

Victor feels some small amount sympathy for Alex. He’d met Alexander Jehane about five years back and he still remembers vividly the impact of it. The main result being it sent his cousin Kelvin into a frenzy of revolutionary fervor. Born two days apart to sisters in a large House, the two boys were naturally close, with Victor’s practicality tempering Kelvin’s enthusiasms.

Jehane impressed Victor, but it was Kelvin who drew him into Jehane’s revolution and eventually into his army. It still seems ironic to Victor that he, not Kelvin, had been given more responsibility and what was in essence—despite Jehane’s official stance against ‘rank’—a higher position within the Provisional Armed Forces and doubly ironic Kelvin, the real convert, died for the cause.

Or not ironic at all. Kelvin’s death destroyed Victor’s faith in Jehane. He knows it’s irrational, to assign blame for what was a tactical failure but his belief in the revolution clouded over and slowly atrophied over the course of the following months. Dean seemed a more immediate and involved leader to him than Jehane.

Dean was the one to salvage the Epping expedition and destroy the ship he considered the cause of Kelvin’s death. Over time, the _Royal Sovereign_ become his home. He discovered, slowly and with surprise, he’d no great desire to return to a life of mining at Henriksen House. The revolution changed him enough to make such a return difficult.

So whatever sympathy he feels for Alex is tempered by his anger at her for jeopardizing the one future he feels he can look forward to and by his anger at what her betrayal did to Jody. Truth be told, he’s happy to see Alex go.

She doesn’t speak to him, gathering up her few possessions. A few tears wet her cheeks, but not many. She follows him meekly to the shuttle bay and boards without incident.

He watches the dark fall of her hair and the loose swirl of her skirts disappear around a corner of the pressurized tube leading to the shuttle and he seals the hatch, leaving the four Ridani guards to keep an eye on the bay. He even whistles a little, returning to the upper decks.

He finds Dean in the outer room of his suite. Dean waves him in and he sits down beside Flower on the couch. Dean’s standing. His face drawn, barely concealing the shock he’s trying to overcome.

“We’re discussing the casualties,” he tells Victor. “Flower said she doesn’t have enough knowledge to help them improve, but she can maintain their current condition and continue to rehabilitate those who are recovering. The question is whether we transfer them to Station Hospital on Holbrook or ask the _Endeavour_ to take them. After all, they are heroes from the battle at Guildford.”

“What about Cas—” Victor starts to ask but stops, seeing Dean’s face. He looks at Flower, like she can answer the question.

Flower regards Victor gravely. “He be gone ya catatonic, min Henriksen. No telling how or when he might come clear o’ that.”

“I see,” Victor murmurs, not sure he does.

“There’s no guarantee,” Dean continues, “they’ll recover in any case.”

“I’m not sure what other choice we have,” Victor says.

“Take them with us to League space. Find medical care there. Flower can continue monitoring them.”

“And if they recover in League space, how many will thank us for taking them so far from home?”

Flower grins. “Being ya dead be furthest from home I can think on, min Henriksen. Min Angelis wanted them to go.”

“Min Angelis,” Dean says tonelessly, “has his own ghosts to atone for.”

The comment leaves an uncomfortable silence in the room. Victor breaks in briskly, more out of compassion for Dean’s pain than to cover his own discomfort.

“This all presupposes we can convince the _Endeavour_ to retreat without engaging us, get supplies at Holbrook and get across uncharted vector space to your League. On the other hand, Pinto and the Mule ran the last damn vector on _manual_.” He runs a hand over his silvering hair. “I’m getting too old for this.” Then laughs, exchanging looks with Flower. “Unless this Formula is true, in which case I won’t be getting _older_ for a while yet.”

“You don’t believe it?” Dean asks, a little defensive, perhaps.

“Do you? Really?” Victor’s relieved to see the barest smile crack Dean’s grim facade.

“No, not really,” he admits. “But I’m sure we’ll get used to the idea. Eventually.” He turns and strides with abrupt energy to the door. Victor and Flower both hurry to stand. “I want the bridge and engineering back up as soon as Diamond is finished. We don’t have time to waste.” He pauses. “Then meet me in detention. I wanna ask Comrade Bradbury a question before we put her on the shuttle. Flower, you can return to Medical.”

“Yes, min Winchester.”

“What question?” Victor asks.

“I wanna know what Cas meant when he said she smells like Dorothy.”

He leaves and Victor follows Flower out. He gets a verbal estimate from Diamond on how long until the bridge is usable and puts all personnel on ready. Curious now, he makes his way to detention.

The brothers are standing close together outside the cell holding Comrade Bradbury. They’re observing her through the one-way screen. If they’re talking Victor can’t hear what they’re saying but as he enters they turn together to look at him. He walks over to stand on Dean’s other side.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bunk, shoulders slumped, her face in her hands. Her body moves as she breathes, otherwise she’s motionless. Her head jerks up as the door opens. Her eyes have a white edge of fear and she pulls the thin blanket around herself like a shield.

“I have a question to ask you,” Dean speaks, not harshly, but there’s no gentleness in his voice. “Then you’ll be escorted to the shuttle and transferred back to the _Endeavour_ with the others.”

“You’re going to let us go?” Bradbury asks, not believing it. “The _Endeavour_ has orders to bring you in.”

“Your Commander’s dead. What will your First Officer do?” Sam asks her.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m nominal First. This expedition was put together fast, people were pulled from several different ships to cover it.”

“You didn’t know Comrade Trenton before?” Again from Sam.

“No,” Bradbury seems about to say something more, perhaps about Trenton but thinks better of it.

“Is Dr. Jennings still on board?” Dean asks, obviously sidetracked by the conversation.

“Jennings? The only doctor on board I know of is Gaines.”

Dean glances at Sam, like the look shares information Victor ought to know. “I suppose that settles it. The casualties will stay with us.”

“If I may?” Victor asks. Dean nods. “I’d like to know why Comrade Bradbury is being so very forthcoming. Under the circumstances.”

“Comrade Bradbury,” says the woman with a mild hint of irony, “is appalled at the actions of her former Commander and isn’t entirely sure she wants to return to the _Endeavour_.” She makes a scoffing noise. “If this is what Jehane’s revolution has come to—killing children—I don’t want any part of it.”

“Did you know Dorothy Baum?” Dean questions.

Her face changes. Victor easily recognizes her expression. A memory mixed of sorrow and joy. She loved Dorothy, once, or loves her still. How the sorrow fits in he can’t guess.

“You’re Charlene, aren’t you?” Dean says unexpectedly, taking two steps forward to kneel before her. “She loved you.”

She stares at Dean like Dean’s soul has been illuminated before her. “You knew her,” she breathes. She puts out her hands and Dean takes them in his.

Sam moves forward and kneels next to Dean, nodding his agreement.

The three of them create such an act of unconscious family it makes Victor feel awkward and intrusive.

“Who’re you talking about?” he asks and is embarrassed to hear his own voice grate.

“Dorothy.” Dean says.

“Dorothy Baum,” Sam speaks at the same time.

When Victor doesn’t react Dean adds, “Athena.”

“Oh.” It’s all he can think to say, knowing it was Athena’s death—her murder—that brought them here.

“After the Nika Revolt on Rochester,” Bradbury speaks, oblivious to anything but Sam and Dean, “when I turned her in, when she tried to escape from the hospital, after they shipped my unit off to the next assignment, I couldn’t forget her. Or the things she said and I couldn’t forgive myself for stopping her escape.”

“She forgave you,” Dean murmurs and, when Sam nudges him, continues, “No, there was no forgiveness in it. She simply never blamed you for doing your duty. She admired you for it.”

She shakes her head slightly, either not believing or believing too much. “I finally deserted, joined Jehane and learned ships, because that’s where they needed people then. When we came to Arcadia at last I thought ‘I’ll find her again’. I knew she was Athena. I thought it wouldn’t be hard to find her, to show her I finally understood, about the Nika Revolt, about Jehane’s revolution. But she was dead.” Pain invests her expression, her entire body, and she hesitates a moment before she goes on. “I volunteered to come out on the _Endeavour_. Trenton as good as said the people they were going after were the ones responsible for Dorothy’s death. But I started to distrust Trenton and after this”—she hasn’t stopped looking at Sam and Dean—“I think he must’ve been lying, wasn’t he?”

The line of Dean’s mouth quirks up into a rueful smile.

“Not entirely. I was responsible for her death, because of something I told her. But it was Jehane who ordered her to be killed.”

The revelation proves too much for her. She breaks her hold on Dean’s hands and covers her face again. “Jehane,” she murmurs. “After everything Athena _did_ for him. How can I believe that?”

Dean looks up at Victor. Understanding the signal quite well, he nods to Dean and leaves the three of them alone. Waiting outside for perhaps five minutes, watching Dean’s lips move as he starts his explanation, Sam obviously adding details at the start, then falling silent as Dean continues by himself. Bradbury’s muted responses and the shivering of her shoulders as each piece of Jehane’s betrayal of Dorothy falls into place. But he starts to feel like a voyeur, so he leaves.

He checks in with Diamond again. Cleanup’s progressing. He’s told Baby is taking systems through their paces and both the Mule and Pinto have already reported to the bridge and are beginning their calculations.

Victor still doesn’t feel like making a personal inspection. Instead, he wanders to the mess. Its lights are dimmed so far he can scarcely make out the two occupants, one seating in the lap of the other at a table in the farthest corner.

He enters cautiously.

Jody sits so utterly despondent, so drained of life, Victor wonders for a moment if he’s mistaken her. But the child huddled in her lap can only be Owen. The boy has arranged himself carefully, not touching his mother’s broken arm, but with the absolute urgency of a child needing comfort. His face’s pressing into Jody’s breast, his legs curling up completely in her lap. She’s got her good arm clasped tight around him. But her eyes are focused on the wall.

She hears his footsteps and turns her head ever so slightly to see him. A flare of hope—but it dies abruptly as she recognizes who it is.

He approaches and stops at the other end of the table.

“Is there anything I can get you?” he asks, feeling like an idiot as he speaks.

“She went,” Jody says, not a question.

He bows his head. “Yes.” Hesitates. “I’m sorry.” Wishes immediately he hadn’t said it.

She doesn’t reply.

Soft footfalls sound at the mess entrance. Both Jody and Victor look up, she with awful hope, he with guilty relief when he sees Dean walk across to them.

Dean’s face is grave. He nods first at Victor. “Charlie’s joining our crew. Can you show her around?”

“Are you sure—?” he starts, shocked at this sudden change of sides.

“Quite sure.”

“But we aren’t free of the _Endeavour_ yet. This could be a ploy on her part.”

“Victor. I know the risks. She isn’t one anymore. We both loved Dorothy, in different ways. She’ll stand by us.”

Victor bows his head again, although this time it’s a gesture of acceptance and he retreats to the entrance. But he pauses to look back.

Dean’s standing, watching Jody. Victor can’t make out his expression in the dimness, but he hears Dean say, low, “Jody.”

One word and Jody raises her head, shifting in her chair.

“What am I going to do?” she asks. A simple enough question, but her voice catches and chokes on the words and to Victor’s horror Jody starts to cry. He takes two involuntary steps toward them, but Dean’s already knelt to hug both Jody and the silent Owen, enclosing them in his arms, comforting them.

Victor knows he’s not only unneeded, but out of place. Yet still, the thoughts coming into his mind as he leaves, quiet as he can, are both bitter and ironic. What quality do people like Castiel, Athena and Jehane have, to instill such love and loyalty? 

  


.oOo.

  


No one chases Owen off the bridge when they come into Holbrook system the second time, so he sits quietly on the floor next to the elevator. His mother is fully armed again, preparing for battle, but Owen prefers to stay away from the lowest deck, the too recent scene of Alex’s betrayal. The others seem reluctant to step back onto the bridge, but after a first, nervous glance, the place seems to Owen to look exactly as it always has. Maybe some of the consoles gleam more than usual. The other memory is already fading, like a nightmare.

Benny hails the _Endeavour_. Dean, in the curtest voice Owen has ever heard him use, outlines the situation to the _Endeavour’s_ nervous Second Officer in words satisfying in both their brevity and coolness. Something on the lines of, ‘Leave quietly, or we’ll blow you up.’ The invading shuttle is released from the _Sovereign’s_ hold, taking Alex with it and the _Endeavour_ —its new Commander evidently unwilling to take on the ship that vanished so suddenly and unexpectedly only to return having disposed of a soldier as rabid as Cole Trenton—leaves. Quietly.

Comm floods with signals from Stations Alpha and Beta and from the remains of Holbrook’s old Central military command from planetside. The two military ships had been hulled by the _Endeavour_ on her arrival. Those of their crew who could escape shuttled down to the old command base near Holbrook’s largest city. The _Royal Sovereign_ has saved them. Did her captain mean to lead the fight to restore Central against the upstart Jehane?

Dean’s announcement of his twin goals—to distribute the Miescher Formula and then leave to attempt to cross the old road back—brings silence on comm. A brief message apologizes for the delay and finally, after some fifteen minutes, an offer to provide whatever the honorable captain needs so he can leave as soon as he sees fit.

“In other words,” Victor says from scan, grinning, “they think we’re crazy and they want us out of here before we change our minds about what crazy thing it is we’re going to do next.”

“After all,” hisses the Mule with surprising sympathy, “there are only two charted vectors out from Holbrook, so they live on the edge of known space every moment. Of all people, they will be most superstitious.”

Dean relays the ship’s needs to Station Alpha and a distribution schedule for the Formula. Fifteen of the seventeen conscious patients in Medical ask to remain at Holbrook and get ferried across with the shipment of the Formula base. None of the active crew leave.

It takes two days to resupply. Dean supervises, from shipboard, the equitable distribution of the Formula on Holbrook and its stations, as well as the portion set aside to be passed on to the other nearby systems and stations.

Every four hours he takes Flower with him to check on Cas’ condition, leaving Sam to cover while he’s gone. Owen asks politely if he can go too and because he’s underfoot anywhere else, especially because his mother works long hours stowing the influx of goods, he’s allowed to tag along. Cas’ catatonia fascinates him. Cas doesn’t seem quite alive to Owen, lying there so motionless and pale and yet the tiny swell and fall of chest as he breathes marks him as not dead.

The bustle of resupply ends abruptly. The bay releases the last of Holbrook’s supply shuttles. Grappling lines from the bulk tanker recede. The Stationmaster bids them a relieved farewell.

The _Royal Sovereign_ vectors twice on charted jumps and after each window Dean goes immediately to check again on Cas. No one asks why.

His condition doesn’t change.

Glenroy Station welcomes them with surprise. Its population of Cirriath, stranded Ridanis and a handful of contract personnel obviously see little traffic at this hindermost shore on the edge of the ocean of uncharted space. Dean sends them a vial of Formula—enough to cover their population with some to spare—as a final gift.

The _Royal Sovereign_ leaves the last outpost of Riven space and noses out into the unknown, onto Paisley’s ‘Haunted Way’. Wandering the corridors of the _Royal Sovereign_ , Owen catches snatches of song from the Ridanis. They all seem to be singing from the same work, holding on to it like it’s some kind of shield, or talisman. Its chorus whispers through the corridors in a muted undertone:

  
_“Lost we are, belly down day_  
_Through ya mountains winds ya way.”_

  


They journey slowly, with great caution. Preceding each window and following them, there are intense periods of discussion, arguments over what constitutes landmarks and which old and half-forgotten traditions about the way back are to be trusted. The ship drifts in orbit in each new system—all empty of stations, beacons or any other sign of previous traffic—for long periods while new courses are charted, discarded and recalculated.

Time strings itself out until Owen feels they’ll wander the road forever. Still, his mother goes about her duties like there’s not enough time to do all she has to do, or like she’s making sure there isn’t. Paisley rarely emerges out of Engineering. Two convalescing patients, relatively mobile, take over Alex’s domain in the galley, making it a different place. People still gather there for breaks, but not people Owen’s comfortable with. Now and then Victor attempts to entertain him but Victor doesn’t understand children, much less Owen, and Owen feels obliged to be polite but not to endure his company for long. He doesn’t dislike Victor, rather he finds him inflexible.

Only two things make the journey bearable. The first is his visits, four times a ship’s day, to the captain’s suite with Flower to look in on Cas. As days turn into a week and then two, Dean’s attendance slacks off until he’s only there twice a day, preferring to send Sam to open the door when he’s on the bridge. He even sleeps on the couch in the outer room.

The second is his slowly expanding awareness of the ghosts on the ship. He wonders if Paisley’s right, if they _are_ on the ‘Haunted Way’, but he doesn’t have the nerve to ask her. Happy, Fearful and Grumpy still walk their phantom paths but now others, too faint to identify as more than presences before, become clearer to him. Spoiled, who hogs one particular chair in the mess. Old, who walks very slowly and seems confused and the Other Captain.

Owen isn’t sure how there can be another captain, but there is no doubt who she is. She haunts the captain’s suite and the bridge and one lab in particular on silver deck. Owen can’t decide whether he likes her or not, because he feels if she knew he was following her, she would, unlike Dean, chase him off. But she doesn’t notice because she is, of course, a ghost.

She does inadvertently show him something. Owen’s taken to trailing her because she knows the ship best and because, despite the fact Owen suspects she’d have no tolerance for children tagging after her, he admires the feelings of competence and courage he catches off of her.

The more he concentrates on her, the clearer and stronger her presence seems to him and Owen discovers she has a different code than the ones Sam and Dean use to unlock the inner suite.

When he tries it, it works. He goes in, cautious, but he’s only alone with the still form of Cas. Owen talks to him for a while. Nothing happens, except the deadening, uncomfortable silence seems to lessen, softened by his voice.

Later he asks Flower if Cas can hear them.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Could be he can. There be no way of telling. I talk to ya patients as be in ya coma. I think it does ya good, for them to hear ya voice, though they may not understand ya words or even that I be talking to them.”

Owen takes to bringing his comm-screen and reading his lessons out loud to Cas. Sneaking in, really. Flower’s visits are precisely timed and Dean’s too busy running an uncharted road, backtracking here and there, soothing his nervous crew and the superstitious Ridanis, to be a likely danger. Once he overstays his time and has to hide in the closet while Flower does her usual check of vital signs and refills the fluid bags.

Owen starts to enjoy himself. He knows better than to tell anyone about his discovery. Weeks lengthen into a month, one month into two. He makes great progress with his lessons. Flower observes once that Cas seems somehow less tense. Concentrating on his secret, Owen lets his awareness of the ship’s ghosts dwindle a bit, although it never fades entirely. Tight in this little cocoon he and Cas share, he grows isolated from the rest of the ship.

So it takes him quite by surprise when abruptly, one day, comm chimes and Dean’s voice sounds across the ship wide channel.

“All hands. We’ve come into hailing distance of a beacon for a station calling itself Dunedin. We have reached inhabited space. We’re now bearing in-system. Full alert.”

Owen is so astonished he jumps to his feet, letting his screen fall onto the bed next to Cas’ feet and runs out the door, heading for the bridge. Forgetting to wait and make sure the door shuts behind him.

It takes only moments to reach the bridge. The atmosphere is hushed but expectant.

“Comm incoming,” Benny says as Owen slips inside, stationing himself by the door.

“This is Dunedin Center.” The man’s voice is cheerful but strangely accented, so it’s hard to understand him. “We receive you, _Royal Sovereign_. We have five berths open. I suggest you dock at List Seven. Can you please give me your registry number so I can log you in?” The request is made without any hint of threat or impatience.

Benny looks at Dean.

“Give me the channel,” he says. Benny nods and Dean speaks. “Dunedin Center, this is Captain Winchester on the _Royal Sovereign_. We’re new to League space. We have no registry number. Can you suggest another form of identification we can give you?”

“Captain Winchester, can you wait a moment while I get my shift manager? And we’ll run your specs—” his voice breaks off abruptly and then, like he’s forgotten to flip off his comm, they hear him say, quite distinctly. “My God.”

“Captain.” A new voice, this one as accented as the previous, but crisper. “I’m min Panowski, shift manager here, are you aware the ship’s designation ‘Royal Sovereign’ is interdicted under League Law? Has been since the disappearance of fully half of the ‘Hard-Luck Fleet’ some two centuries ago?”

“ _What_ is the ‘Hard-Luck Fleet’?” Victor asks.

The term nags at Dean, until he remembers Bobby using it. The exploratory fleet sent out before his birth. The same ships—or at least five of those ships—Central impounded to serve as the basis of their military fleet.

“Comrade Panowski,” Dean replies, not knowing what honorific to use, “this _is_ the _Royal Sovereign_.”

“My God,” says someone again.

“Captain,” Panowski’s voice has a certain edge, even awe, in it. “Let me notify Dunedin’s Coordinator. I feel he’ll be eager to know of your arrival. Please dock in any case at List Seven. Under the circumstances, we may have to hold you in quarantine for a short time. I hope you understand.”

“I understand,” Dean replies.

“And by the way, _min_ Panowski is fine. ‘Comrade’ is rather an old-fashioned term for someone of my ancestry.” He sounds amused.

“Certainly, min Panowski. We are happy to comply.” Flicking off his channel, he nods to Benny to continue docking procedures.

“Captain,” Victor calls. “One of the ships docked here has identical specs to a ship in our files.”

“Let me see it.” He brings it up on his console, Sam leans over his shoulder to look as well. “Damn,” Dean murmurs. “That’s gotta be _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_.”

“Who is—?”

Ship’s comm interrupts Victor’s question.

“Captain? This be Flower, in Medical.” Her voice sounds flush with consternation. “I swear I saw min Angelis in here. It were just ya flash, in ya corner o’ my vision, but when I went to go look, I found one o’ ya medical kits—one o’ ya portable bags—be missing.”

Dean stiffens. “Meet me in my suite,” he orders and stands. Both Sam and Dean sweep past Owen without noticing.

He follows them, sudden guilt staining his face. The door to the inner room stands open. No one lies on the bed. A faint impression shows the imprint of a body, but even as they stare, the depression fills and levels, adjusting to the lack of weight.

Dean mutters something Owen doesn’t catch, excepting it sounds like a swear word.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts in a very small voice.

Comm chimes on again.

“Captain!” Jody’s voice. “We’ve got a detach. Someone’s stolen the two-person skiff and left the ship.”

Dean simply stares at the empty bed. Owen senses he’s engaged in some sort of inner struggle.

Then he slaps the comm. “Benny. Get me Panowski— _min_ Panowski.” Dean still directs his voice to Benny on the comm but now he’s looking squarely in Sam’s eyes and there’s some added meaning to his next words. “Cas ran. We have to warn them.”

“But Dean—”

Dean ignores Sam’s attempt at interrupting and continues, “and then get me a line to Ellen Harvelle’s ship.”

“But Captain. I have Stationmaster— _Center Coordinator_ —waiting to talk to you.” Benny replies.

“Oh Hells,” Dean says, so low Owen scarcely hears it. He turns, glancing at Owen as he moves to the door. “You’d better go to Medical, Owen,” he says absently as the door opens to let him and Sam onto gold deck corridor. “Stick with Flower for now. We’re going to be busy for a while.”

Sam pauses enough to let him reply.

Owen nods. He feels a horrible, horrible feeling, as if like Alex, he’s betrayed Dean. But he doesn’t have the courage to tell them it’s his fault Cas has escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Housekeeping:** Chapter 9 posting on Friday the 15th will be a little later than normal. I usually post early to mid-afternoon my time, but on the 15th due to cocktail parties and boardgames it'll be late evening when I post.  
> But it'll still be Friday somewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Dean bear to hear the truth he's spoken
> 
> * * *

Dean surveys Jody, who stands before him outfitted in her full mercenary rig. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate,” he says slowly.

“But it’s standard procedure,” Victor insists. “Any ship’s captain is always escorted by military personnel, unless you’re an in-system boat and even then, sometimes—” He shrugs.

“I have Sam.” He waves over to where Diamond is helping Sam into his own rig.

“And if you didn’t have Sam, Diamond would be coming with us. You’ll always have two of us flanking you Dean.” Jody does a quick double check of Sam’s rig as he steps back over to them. She turns her back so Sam can check her rig as well. It’s something she’s drilled all of their combat troops in, check and cross check.

“I be happy to come with you min Winchester,” Diamond says, with a grin on her face. “I can let Flame, Bela and Crystal know I be busy with you.”

“I thought you liked running life support?” Sam asks.

“I do min Winchester, but today be ya change day for ya water reclamation scrubbers.” Diamond directs this response to Sam. While the _Sovereign’s_ environmental systems run almost completely on automatic, all the scrubbers and filters for the various systems require manual cleaning. In the case of water reclamation it means removing any solid matter caught in the scrubbers. As captain, Dean requires everyone onboard take turns doing the most unpleasant tasks.

“You set up the two trained and two ‘volunteers’ roster, Diamond, it’s your team,” Jody noted.

Diamond rolls her eyes. Since being made the head of her department, the Ridani woman has grown in confidence. She salutes Jody and leaves them.

Dean, seeing his team is ready, checks his own pistol, clipping it next to his comm-screen on his belt. “All right. Jody. Pinto. Charlie. Rainbow. Sam. Let’s go. Victor, she’s all yours.”

He nods, grave. Dean leads his party out into the link bubble and then into the short tunnel connecting the _Sovereign_ to Dunedin Center. The far door, octagonal in shape, soundlessly rotates open. They come out into a gleaming curve of bright walls and a high broad cavernous corridor lined with stark columns.

Three people wait for them: a woman, and two men one of whom is Ridani. They’re all smiling. The Ridani man carries a baby in a sling on his hip.

The other man steps forward, extending one hand. Stopping his eyes widen as he takes in Sam and Jody’s rigs. He seems at a loss for what to say. Neither he nor his companions wear anything that looks like a weapon.

Dean stops his party five steps from them. Like he’s sensing Dean’s confusion, the Ridani man walks forward unerringly to him. He also puts out his hand. “Captain Winchester?” He nods and a bit surprised, shakes hands with him. The baby coos and squeals. “My name is Russell Lemmons, although,” a glance here for Rainbow and Pinto, “you might prefer to call me Scallop. I’m conservative enough that my family still takes on the pattern names. I’m Dunedin Coordinator. With me are min Panowski and his assistant, min Ambyr. And my daughter, Bobbie-Jane. It’s my pleasure to welcome you here. If our records are showing the correct information, you must have quite a story to tell us.”

For a moment Dean can only stare at him, until he becomes aware of what it is about Scallop that bothers him. Clearly a Ridani—the tattoos covering his face, neck and left arm confirms it. Except his right arm is bare. His skin’s a pleasant brown, but it’s as bare, and unmarked, as his own and the baby has no visible tattoos at all, except for one elaborate snowflake on her left cheek. Dean realizes he’s staring and the rest of his party is as well.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Scallop’s smile turns apologetic. “I’m not sure where you’ve come from. Dunedin is on the border of The Pale. But I ought to tell you now, one doesn’t really carry weapons in inhabited zones.” He seems slightly embarrassed at having to point this out to them. “I don’t mean to offend you, of course.”

“Of course not. We didn’t know there were laws against it.”

He glances at his two companions. They all look surprised. “Why would we need laws for something like that? If you can show me your privateer or bounty license we can certainly see you might feel more comfortable, although usually they respect the custom—”

Dean grins suddenly, liking him because he seems, for the moment, as confused as Dean is. “ _Min_ Scallop.” The Ridani honorific comes strangely to his lips. “This _is_ League space. Am I correct?”

He blinks. “Yes.” But now he waits, aware Dean means to tell them more.

“I’d better try to make this succinct and I’m not sure how to. We’re not from League space. Several centuries ago lowroad colonization ships were sent out from League space.”

“My God,” murmurs the other man. “The cryo boats. I thought they’d all vanished.”

“We’re descendants of those people. They did find landfall, some of them. Colonized an area of space we now call the Riven. And _we_ found—myself and the people with me—this ship and decided to look for the League.”

“But how did you—” Scallop starts and stops, takes a deep breath and continues. “Perhaps we’d better go to my office. I can see this is going to be a very long story and we’d better record it for the Concord representative here. This has incredible ramifications.” He appears eager to hear their tale.

“Would you like us to disarm?” Dean asks. He’s noticing people passing by are giving them strange looks.

“Dean—” hisses Jody, warning. Sam touches her arm and Jody subsides, looking disapproving.

“I, for one,” offers Panowski, stepping forward, “feel rather like a Russian might feel confronted by a party of Mongols. _I’d_ feel more comfortable.”

“Mongols?” Jody asks in a low voice.

“Please excuse min Panowski,” interposes Scallop. “He’s a fanatic for history. If you wouldn’t mind—”

At Dean’s nod, they disarm and Rainbow takes the weapons back inside the ship. Scallop smiles, looking as relieved as Panowski. Reflexively, he pats the baby’s bottom. “If you’ll come this way.”

There’s too much to see to register what’s similar and what’s totally different. Once they arrive in the spacious Coordinator’s office and seat themselves in delicate looking but wholly comfortable chairs, Dean introduces his party. No one even blinks when he introduces Pinto as his pilot. Scallop’s only comment, addressed to Pinto, is he must be from an orthodox sect.

A moment later the Concord representative walks in and introductions are made again. The representative, a very dark, very tall woman named Clea, sits down beside Scallop, gets the baby to smile at her and then turns to regard Dean expectantly.

“Captain.” Her voice is smooth, her accent more tone than pronunciation, making her at once easier to understand and yet, for some phrases, far more difficult. “You and the people with you present a unique case. Not just because you have in your possession a famous ship believed lost about two hundred years ago. But imagine _our_ interest and delight, in discovering there is, one might call it, a lost colony out there. What we record here today will be transmitted immediately to Concord.”

“What _is_ Concord?” Dean asks.

Clea chuckles. “There. Proof positive, apart from your accents and your style of clothing. Concord is the administrative center for the various autonomous systems which together make up League space. We can show you a map if it will help you to get your bearings. Otherwise, please go on.”

Dean chooses to go on. “Our computers can supply you with more information about the location and size of Riven space than I can. My navigator can better describe the various physical anomalies existing between League space and Riven space which make navigation with the vector drive and a set path difficult to find and maintain, which would be the reason, as far as I know, the Riven has stayed isolated this long. It took us almost four months to run a fairly straight course which, once properly charted with a full crew, will probably take about a month to cover, according to our pilot and our navigator.”

“You only have one of each?” Panowski interrupts, astonished. “For that kind of trip?”

“Yes, but they’re good.” Dean smiles as Pinto scowls at him.

“They must be,” Panowski agrees. He turns to look directly at Pinto. “My respects.”

His scowl turns quickly to embarrassment.

“We also,” Dean continues, to spare him, “have our ship’s library, with the usual historical, geographical, economic and literary files. When we found the _Royal Sovereign_ its entire log and library’d been wiped, except for the ship’s operating system.”

“What happened to her?” Clea asks.

“We don’t know. We didn’t find any bodies, either. The crew simply, vanished. There’s no trace of them. The _Sovereign_ itself is an old legendary ghost ship, haunting ya— _the_ —way back. You know the kind of story. She must’ve been drifting for decades before finally caught by a small planet. We found her quite by accident.”

“And brought her here,” Scallop muses. “What made you decide to attempt to find League space, Captain? I’m just curious.”

Dean sighs. He doesn’t want to bring up the whole story of Jehane and his successful revolution against Central and his betrayal of Dorothy. At the same time, he’s not sure how much he should say about Master Smith and his and Sam’s acquaintance with Pamela Barnes or the saboteurs in general. If everything Bobby, Pam and Cas have said about their current status in League space is true, he certainly can’t give any clues to Pamela’s whereabouts. The problem, of course, is what to do about Cas.

“Two reasons,” he starts, finally deciding what line to take. “At least one League ship has been in Riven space. Perhaps someone from Concord.”

“My God,” mutters the assistant Ambyr from the back corner.

“It’d make sense,” Clea agrees, not looking very surprised. “But again, go on.”

“I ran into them accidentally,” continues Dean, deciding not to explain the circumstances of their meeting any further—specifically the fact they’d believed him to be involved with the saboteurs.

“Of course it makes sense, Clea,” Scallop says abruptly. “Excuse me for breaking in. I know it’s not supposed to be common knowledge, but I’ve heard rumors Concord Intelligence is searching for all the old Shurley network, those left alive, that is. It makes sense if one ship can find its way across, others might have, years ago, ferrying saboteurs to safety in anonymity. Fair enough, if you ask me. I always thought they were persecuted through no fault of their own.”

“I didn’t think one could persecute psychopathic criminals,” interrupts Panowski. “If you ask me, I think the lot of them ought to be locked up—”

“—and the lock code erased,” finishes Scallop, like he’s heard this argument many times before.

“It’s certainly possible,” says Clea calmly. She smiles ruefully at Dean. “Excuse us for hanging out our dirty laundry. We don’t mean to interrupt you. You said there were two reasons.”

“I also accidentally ran across the _Roadhouse_. I believe she’s docked here now.”

Panowski laughs. “The Queen of the Highroad. So that’s where she came from. We don’t usually see her here. She usually stays within The Pale. I feel a little sorry for Riven space, for where Ellen Harvelle goes, the rest of the privateers will soon follow and your government has none of the covenants Concord has set up to control them.”

Dean smiles back. He rather liked Panowski, despite what he’d called the saboteurs. “I’m not sure Riven space is rich enough to interest them. I also met a privateer who called herself Dagon.”

Panowski and Scallop look blank. This time Clea smiles. “That must have been interesting. You’ve had an eventful time, Captain.”

She leaves a deliberate pause after her words and Dean knows she’s leaving unspoken her real question: Why you? So Dean chooses the best method to deflect it—by asking a question of his own. One he has to ask.

“These saboteurs you mention. Who—or what—are they?”

All three start to speak at once, stop, chuckling a little and then Clea starts unopposed.

“If my history is correct, the cryo ships which colonized your Riven space would’ve left here before we met the alien culture known as the Kapellan Empire. They—the Kapellans—gave us the vector drive, and we put out the exploratory ships, known ever after as the ‘Hard-Luck Fleet’ because so few returned. Soon after the Empire decided to annex League space. We had no choice but to accept annexation into their Empire.

“Many decades later a man of Terran birth named Charles Shurley led a revolt against them which almost succeeded. For some reason—and you’d have to get a xenologist who has studied them to explain it to you—the Kapellans ennobled him rather than execute him. Thereby putting him in a difficult position, you see. After many years, Shurley put together a network of saboteurs, based on information—well, let me make this as short as I can—”

Scallop shifts and starts to stand. “If you’ll excuse me a moment. My daughter—”

Ambyr stands up and comes swiftly over. “I’ll change her. You stay.”

“Thank you.” They transfer the child smoothly and Ambyr disappears out the door.

“In any case,” Clea continues, “they start to disable by sabotage the industry, communications and transport web and so on, of the Empire, especially within old League space and the regions bordering it. So in time, when Shurley launched a second revolt with a number of other leaders, the saboteurs’d undermined enough of the Kapellan superstructure and continued to do so throughout the revolt, that the League was able to sue for peace and gain autonomy and a large neutral zone which we call The Pale. Privateers are given a free rein within it, but must accord to strict covenants without, which is why we were surprised to see the _Roadhouse_ here. But that’s another story.”

“I don’t understand.” Jody, speaks up unexpectedly. “Why would you want to lock these people, these saboteurs, in prison? I would’ve thought they’d be heroes.”

Clea folds her hands in her lap, a quiet gesture. “You must understand the methods these people used were often ones normal people find repugnant.” She pauses. “Quite repugnant.”

“Disgusting,” Panowski says decisively. “They had—still have, one supposes—the ability to kill without remorse or even a second thought.”

“You mean they _enjoyed_ it?” Jody asks, unable to comprehend their revulsion.

“Some might have, I suppose. When one has already crossed the line it scarcely makes much difference. At least the mentally ill ones are treatable. The others,” Panowski shudders and glances at Scallop and Clea like he’s searching for confirmation, “are simply sociopaths.”

“I see,” Jody murmurs. It’s clear to Dean that she doesn’t see at all. Dean himself can only guess at the assumptions grounding their statements from things Cas and Bobby said to him and Sam.

“That isn’t entirely fair.” Scallop addresses himself to Jody. “It’s true without the saboteurs we couldn’t have extricated ourselves from the Empire. We may deplore their methods, their willingness to use violence to solve what is better solved by negotiation—”

“You know, Russell,” puts in Clea to Scallop, “some still say at that time we had no grounds on which to negotiate with the Empire.”

“How hard did we try?” Panowski demands. “To find civilized solutions and not opt once again for the easy solution of violence?”

“There _was_ no widespread fighting,” Clea says gently. “We were spared that much.”

Scallop chuckles. “I’m afraid we’re confusing our visitors. What I _meant_ to say, min Mills, is a certain undercurrent of, shall we say, admiration—”

“Morbid fascination,” Panowski mutters, unrepentant.

“—for the saboteurs has always existed. Stories still circulate, more legends, really, by now. The engagement at Betaos led by a handful—no more than five—saboteurs, who held off an entire Kapellan battalion.”

“Massacred one, you mean. They are life just as we are and deserve the same respect.”

“That man Frank Devereaux actually snuck into the Imperial capital and wreaked havoc on their main intelligence computers before they caught him. Incredible.”

“What happened to him?” Jody asks.

“Killed him, of course. I don’t try to excuse _their_ conduct.”

Panowski grins. “Still, what a way to go. Can you imagine getting through that security? Some say the only reason they caught him was he couldn’t resist trying to steal the Imperial slippers off of the Emperor’s feet while he slept.”

“And the master,” Scallop continues, “who had twins—one of whom went good and one of whom went—quite bad. They still talk about his masterpiece. Rerouting an entire imperial fleet through the wrong vectors. Manually, from Boots Seven.”

“What happened to him?” Dean asks carefully, recognizing the story his half-brother Ash—the ‘good’ twin—told him once, long ago, about Bobby. He makes sure he doesn’t look at Sam lest he give something away in silent communication with his brother.

Scallop shrugs. “No one knows.”

“What about Gabriel?” asks Clea. “He was half-Sirin, you know, so we heard all types of tales about him at my circle’s crèche. And that hell-raiser—what is his name? He saved two Ardakians in some engagement and went on working with them after that.”

“Do you really think that’s true?” Panowski protests. “Everyone knows Pongos won’t work closely with humans because we smell so bad to them.”

Clea shrugs, with a brief smile.

“Or the physician,” Scallop says, still indulging his fascination. “The one who affected blue hair like a Je’jiri—” He stops.

There’s no mistaking the expressions on Jody and Pinto’s faces. Sam and Dean, not as surprised, manage to keep theirs neutral.

“Have the stories spread _that_ far?” Scallop asks. “It’s hard to imagine how they could. It’s only been thirty-four years since emancipation.”

Jody and Pinto look at Dean, expectant. Charlie looks doubly confused. Dean sighs, hating himself for what he’s about to do and yet, in such strange and unknown surroundings he’s not sure he has any choice. He only hopes Cas can forgive him.

“He’s a member of the _Sovereign’s_ crew,” Dean says quietly, continuing while his audience is still too startled to react. “But there’s been a slight—problem. Castiel has no reason to love the League, but he assured me the League deals fairly with its citizens. I don’t know your laws. I don’t know League space at all. But because of—circumstances—I have no choice but to trust you now.” He pauses. If Panowski and Scallop still look puzzled, Clea at least has some measure of comprehension in her face. “A _valued_ member of the _Sovereign’s_ crew,” he stresses. “I’m afraid as we came into the system he—he ran. Took one of our two-man skiffs and left. He hasn’t been well lately…” The sentence sounds terribly weak to his ears.

“Do you mean,” Charlie has a look of outraged shock on her face, “that man—the one who—on the bridge,” the memory makes her shudder, “that man’s a psychopath!”

“He’s not—” Dean starts hotly and then controlled himself.

“But Dean,” Pinto speaks suddenly, “you said yourself that he’s only half—”

“ _Pinto_.” Sam’s voice cuts him off

Pinto shuts up. For once, he doesn’t look sullen, but rather thoughtful.

“I’m not sure I understand what exactly happened,” Clea speaks, watching this interplay with an eye Dean fears is far too perceptive.

Dean says nothing for a moment, because he can’t decide what to say. Charlie looks angry. Jody and Pinto wait patiently. The door opens and Ambyr returns. “I’ll take her,” Panowski offers and he settles the infant on his lap. The baby stares with wide, intent eyes at all the faces in the room.

“It’s very important,” Dean starts slowly, “he’s not arrested or put in a cell or put in prison or—it’s very important I— _we_ —get him back. That’s what I need your help with.”

“Are you saying he’s physically ill?” Scallop asks.

Dean hesitates, looking briefly at Sam.

“No,” Clea speaks softly. “I feel somehow what Captain Winchester is _not_ saying is he fears he’s mentally ill. If that’s the case, I’m curious as to why you’re protecting him, or feel he needs protection. We don’t throw patients into institutions anymore, you know. All citizens have equal access to humane psychiatric care.”

“Maybe I’m afraid he won’t get equal treatment because of his background. As one of the saboteurs.”

“I hope we’re not such savages!” exclaims Panowski, looking righteously shocked.

“I sense there’s something else,” murmurs Clea. “Why _you_ want him back so badly.”

Dean looks at Sam, feeling suddenly helpless. It’s hard to admit even to himself the sick worry he feels in his gut at the thought of Cas running loose in who knows what frame of mind.

Surprisingly, it’s Pinto who speaks up. “You might as well tell them the truth, Dean. It’s the only understandable reason anyone would keep him around after what he tried to do to Benny. I know he’s a fine doctor, but…” His smile has a touch of unkind glee in it. “Poor Benny. I could never decide if he’s more afraid of Castiel, or jealous of him.”

“ _Jealous_ of him?”

Pinto’s smile remains unsympathetic. “Since he wouldn’t stoop to sleeping with any filthy tattoos, that didn’t leave many available people, did it? And he _did_ know you from before, as he keeps reminding us.”

“Poor Benny,” echoes Jody, but with rather more charity, like she understands quite well what Benny’s been suffering.

“All right,” concedes Dean, aware his other audience is growing quite bemused. He meets Clea’s eyes. “He’s my lover.”

“Your _lover_!” Charlie jumps to her feet. “You could—with someone who could do what he did to Trenton and the others? That’s _sick_.”

“Charlie. Sit down.” The sudden, chill snap of Sam’s voice sits Charlie down.

“You have no idea.” Dean tells her. “I’m not excusing what he did, but until you know _all_ the facts I suggest you don’t question my judgment.”

Charlie’s expression goes blankly neutral. Pinto coughs nervously into his hand.

“What did he do?” asks Panowski, eyes bright. From his lap, the infant’s eyes fix unnervingly on Dean.

“In League space he hasn’t done anything,” replies Sam, “except run from the _Royal Sovereign_.”

Dean looks away from Charlie and back to the three facing them.

“If you’d like, Captain,” Clea speaks, smoothing over the chill in the air, “you can help me prepare a report for my superior at Doncaster. Under the circumstances, a report will need to go out in any case, but certainly we can include your comments.” She taps her fingers thoughtfully on Scallop’s desk. “There’s also the matter of the _Royal Sovereign_ itself. I’ve no idea if salvage rights apply to a vessel invested under the League Exploratory Guild, although like the other ships it was declared lost. But I can give you no guarantees, except citizenship in the League is open and your livelihood would certainly not be taken away from you without proper and legal recompense.”

“Frankly,” says Dean, grateful to Clea for allowing them to regain their composure during this speech, “I have no idea how your economy works and we have nothing to use for credit anyhow.”

Clea smiles. “Given the unexpected avenue of your arrival and the momentous news you bring, I think it’ll be possible to arrange a, shall we say, open letter of credit, to be presented to any Concord official wherever you stop. Now you’re here, what do you intend to do, Captain? You and your people?”

“Find Castiel,” Dean answers immediately. Stopping, he looks at Jody, Pinto and Charlie. Charlie’s mouth is tight. Pinto looks astonishingly relaxed. Jody looks—like Jody has looked ever since Alex’s departure. Bitterly unhappy and determined not to show it, but right now, it’s mixed with a real spark of interest as she looks back at Dean. Dean wonders if Jody’s ever put aside completely her dreams of bootlegging and smuggling. If the League even has such people—other than, he supposes, what appears to be the strange, shadowy legality of privateers such as Ellen and Dagon.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, after a moment as he realizes it’s true. “I never really thought beyond just getting here.”

“We’ll put out an all points,” Scallop says, sounding reassuring. “For the physician. We’ll need a description. But there should be no problem alerting all ships to let us know if he tries to get passage. Dunedin is a small Center, after all. He won’t be hard to track down.”

“Well,” replies Clea briskly. “I expect, once that’s settled, you may as well take yourselves to Concord in person. The Mother knows they’ll be interested in your story and eager to reestablish ties with Riven space. I’m sure min Panowski can provide someone to discuss the various routes available with your navigator.”

Panowski nods.

“Can we meet again later?” Dean asks. “I’d like to return to the _Sovereign_ and discuss this with the rest of my crew.”

“Of course. One can only make such a decision with full input. Perhaps meet here again in…” Clea glances at Scallop. “Will four hours be enough?”

It’s agreed on. Clea and Dean stand at the same time, they all shake hands and depart.

“Sam,” Dean says softly as they walk along the brilliant hub of Dunedin Center toward their berth. “Did I do the right thing? Or did I just condemn him, by asking for their help? I feel like I’ve thrown him—” He shrugs.

“What is that old phrase?” Sam asks. “‘Thrown to the dogs?’” Dean shudders. Sam goes on. “Or hounds? Maybe wolves? Some kind of furry animal. I read it on some story tapes once. But what else could you do, Dean? In Riven space, we could hunt him ourselves, but here—”

Dean’s gaze sweeps their surroundings comprehensively. Pinto walks in front of them. Before him, Scallop, who in an excess of hospitality has delegated himself to show them back to their ship, walks beside the still unforgiving Charlie, his daughter back in the sling having fallen asleep. Jody walks on his other side. That’s all that’s familiar. Everything else…

Humans, of course. They look the same, except for the exotic ways they dress, a veritable cascade of brilliant colors and bizarre styles and their age, or their lack of it. They see a fair number of children, one single woman who shows signs of aging, but the rest seem suspended in an eerie limbo of mature adulthood where chronological age can scarcely be guessed.

Twice, they see totally unknown alien beings so unremarked upon by the rest of the population that they are clearly not remarkable.

As for the surroundings themselves, they are not so much unrecognizable as just familiar enough to be doubly strange. The berth connections are octagonal and dilating, rather than square. They stroll along a shopping district. Its mottled white walls bear fantastic scenes carved in relief in long, two-meter high strips, stories told to the eye as one walks. A woman passes through a series of gates, encountering peculiar beasts and sinuously complicated gatherings of people on her way to some unseen goal. Storefronts break the tale at intervals. Clusters of tables marking busy cafés obstruct it. Its altogether unlike the cobbled together utilitarian lines of Riven stations, where function supersedes any attempts at decoration.

“Oh, wait,” says Pinto. Scallop and Charlie stop to look at him. He gives Dean a pleading look. “Look at that fabric.” He motions toward a shop. Material lays spread out on tables under a brightly striped awning. “Paisley would love it. Can’t we just look for a second?”

“For a second, Pinto,” Dean agrees, aware he’s humoring him because he so rarely shows any sentimental emotions.

Charlie, evidently not immune to such riches, follows him. Scallop, with a smile, follows her.

“There,” says Sam. “Another one. Or maybe it’s the same one I saw before.”

“Another what?” Dean asks, turning to look. Foot traffic eddies around them. Several small driverless carts loaded with packages speed by, deftly avoiding pedestrians.

“That alien. I’ve seen pictures in story tapes of something like it. Shaped like us, but hairy. What were they called? Except I think they weren’t supposed to be as intelligent as humans and this one doesn’t look quite right either. _Apes_ , that’s it.”

“I don’t see—Oh.” It’s half hidden by a stand of some peculiar green globes Dean thinks might be fruit. For an instant the creature stares disconcertingly straight back at him with eyes just slightly too large to be in proportion to its head. Then it’s gone.

“And did you notice the Stationmaster—what is it they call him?—Coordinator? Scallop. One of his arms isn’t tattooed.” Jody’s more animated than Dean’s seen her in months. “What do you suppose he meant when he asked Pinto if he was _orthodox_?”

As Dean turns to answer, someone collides with him. Hard. Instinctively he lets his knees absorb the impact, bending slightly and he spins to face—

“Dean!” he exclaims. “What a surprise to meet you here!”

Dean’s never seen him before. Not much shorter than him, he has an unshaven face and solid frame. He moves to hug Dean. The gesture’s so unexpected his arms are around Dean before he reacts.

He drops, breaking his grip and shoves him away. Jody goes for her gun.

She doesn’t have one, of course. But as her hand brushes her belt in its instinctive draw, another hand grasps hers. Hair tickles her wrist. A strong, musty scent assails her and she sneezes.

“Excuse me. This will just take a moment,” says a very, very low, peculiarly gruff voice in her ear.

She looks over to see Sam too has been grabbed, even more securely than Jody. The ape alien holding him has both of Sam’s arms pinned to his sides and has lifted him up off of the floor.

Dean drops to a fighting crouch.

The man facing him sighs. “Make this easy for us both, would you?” he asks, sounding weary. He reaches and unclips a thin slate from his front pocket, holding it out to Dean.

Peripherally, Dean can see Charlie turning and her hand too has gone to her belt. Scallop, watching intently, puts a staying hand on Charlie’s arm. Pinto’s already disappeared into the shop.

“Legal and signed,” says the man, “Take a look.”

“What is it?” demands Dean.

“Bounty papers,” he explains, putting on a patient tone like he does this every day to people far more cooperative than Dean. “I have legal right from Concord to take you in.”

A single glance to Jody is signal enough. They both act at the same time, Jody to sweep and take down her opponent, Dean to break back and circle.

But one step back takes him flat into another body. He doesn’t break the flow of his movement but dips and spins and pulls his punch before hitting Sam who’s acting like a meat shield for the alien holding him.

The break in momentum is enough for the first man to grab and twist his arms behind his back. He’s spun around and finds himself facing Jody, who, like Sam, is clasped in the viselike grip of two long, hairy arms, hard against a very broad chest.

“Sorry,” says the man. He glances over at Charlie, still standing held back by Scallop. Pinto, startled and alarmed, comes running out of the store and stops stock still, staring at the unfamiliar sight of Sam, Dean and Jody completely subdued. The man grins, just a little. “Don’t take it bad. You just don’t know their weak points. Can’t take ’em out like you would a human. Hey!” This to Scallop. “You Center personnel?”

Scallop nods and walks briskly forward. Charlie following him, using his body as a shield from behind which she might, perhaps, launch her own attack.

“I don’t want no trouble,” says the bounty hunter. “Bounty’s on my slate.”

Scallop only glances at it briefly. He sighs, heartfelt and turns to Dean. “I’m sorry, Captain. This is quite legal. My hands are tied. If you have an advocate you wish me to call—” Dean’s expression betrays his incomprehension of this remark. “No, I don’t suppose you do. I can’t understand how Concord could’ve—unless your story isn’t true…” He trails off, clearly at a loss what to believe.

“Come on, boys,” says the bounty hunter. “Pick ’em up and let’s go.”

“But, boss,” says the one holding Sam. “I thought we was only taking in these two.”

The man jerks his head to indicate Jody. “You want her at our backs? No thanks. Hoist them.”

The two aliens simply pick up Sam and Jody bodily, like they’re no more than light sacks of food.

“Now you’re going to walk nicely for me aren’t you?” The man asks Dean.

“Wait a minute!” starts Dean, looking at Scallop. “This is outrageous. What about—”

“Hold on,” Scallop speaks. “Min—Turner, is it?” He regards the bounty hunter with obvious distaste. “You only have license for the two men. I suggest you leave the woman with me.”

Turner hesitates, taking in Scallop’s authority as well as the stiff politeness with which he’s being treated. “All right. Fred, move it. Augustus, you wait here. Give us enough time then release her and follow.” He starts to walk quickly, pushing Dean in front of him. Fred in front of them both.

Sam attempts to struggle, but he might as well be trying to bend steel, he gives up. “I’m sorry Dean.”

“Captain!” calls Scallop after their rapidly receding figures. “I’ll notify Clea.” Foot traffic has ceased, people from all around turning to stare at the scene. “I’ll make sure that…”

But Turner has them out earshot before Dean can hear what Scallop will make sure of.

It doesn’t take long to reach a berth and enter the ship docked there. Or to dump them in a tiny cabin where Turner efficiently cuffs their hands and feet in some metal tubing.

The hairy Fred sits back on his haunches, resting his long arms on his knuckles and grins at them. “You all right?” he asks Sam, friendly. “Sometimes I squeeze too hard.”

“Don’t know your own strength,” mutters Turner. He finishes securing Sam and Dean and steps back to regard them, his mouth a thin, tight line.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean demands, glaring at him from his undignified seat on one of the cabin’s bunks. He tries to shift to give himself more authority.

“Rufus Turner, at your service,” he replies, bowing in a way that suddenly and bitterly reminds him of Bobby. “Bounty hunter, to the polite. I won’t bore you with the other names I’ve been called. This is Fred.”

Fred grins.

“I have no idea what I could possibly have to do with you—” starts Dean, still furious, mostly at the ease with which they captured him and Sam.

“That’s what they all say,” murmurs Turner. “Say.” A spark of interest lights his otherwise jaded eyes. “Do you know Singer?”

“Singer?” An unexpected memory of Cas back when they first met him, calling Bobby ‘Singer’ strikes him with such force he ceases speaking.

“Yup,” says Fred succinctly. “The lips always give it away.”

“Wait a minute,” says Turner, speculative now. “That might explain—I suppose you know Angel, too.” His eyes are piercing, touched with suspicion.

“What makes you mention them now?” Sam asks carefully.

He shrugs, but the gesture is brimful of some other emotion. “I found Angel hours ago, half out of his mind. I’m not sure he even recognized me. But I paid what I could for short passage on the _Roadhouse_. He’s scheduled to break dock about,” he checks a thin band clasped around his wrist, “forty minutes ago. So even if you were after him, he’ll be well clear of Dunedin by now.”

“If I were _after_ him?” Dean yells. “What have you done?”

“Don’t scold me,” Turner snaps. “Fred, search them.”

Fred’s touch is remarkably light, rather prim, but efficient. He hands Turner Dean’s comm-screen, which Turner takes without a word and finishes his search. “Nothing but this, boss,” he says and flips out the chains hanging around Dean’s neck, revealing both the grotesque head Sam gave him and the medallion from Bobby.

Turner stares at it. “Oh fucking hell,” he exclaims. He whirls and throws himself out of the cabin, leaving Sam, Dean and Fred to regard the closed door in silence. Fred blinks slowly, shrugs and searches Sam, divesting him of his comm-screen as well before leaving them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I changed Bobby-John to Bobbie-Jane, since they were a shifter and did appear as both a white male and a POC female baby/toddler.
> 
> Tattooing: In Riven space Ridani do not tattoo until they are at least age 16 but can wait for longer if they don't have access to a tattoo artist. Because in Riven space tattoos are still done with a tattoo gun / needles. League space has a new way to tattoo that does not involve needles or pain. Which is why Scallop's daughter has a tattoo on her cheek. If Dean was Ridani he'd have taken the time to comment on her snowflake when he saw it. The Ridani from Riven space will ask the locals about it, but not where non-Ridani can overhear the conversations.
> 
> At this point you should also realise that Paisley is much older than everyone thinks she is as she was already tattooed when Sam and Dean first met her. Currently everyone is going off Jody's incorrect assumption about her age, based on her first menses. If they'd asked how long since she'd received her tattoos they would know she had to be at least 18 when Sam and Dean first met her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not going according to Dean's plan.
> 
> * * *

“I’m sorry,” Clea pauses to examine the conference room on the _Royal Sovereign’s_ gold deck—the room itself more than its other six occupants. “Teak,” she murmurs mysteriously, running one hand along the grain of the table’s frame. “Quite remarkable.”

“I don’t understand,” demands Victor, impatient with her distraction, “how there can be nothing you can do. If you’re indeed the local representative of this—what is it called?”

“Concord,” says Pinto.

“Surely you have some authority to override this man’s license.”

“Let me attempt to explain.” She surveys her audience. Her eyes rest longest on the Mule. Their presence alone, Victor feels sure, has gone far to convince her their story is true. Much against his own instinct to caution, Victor’s given her access to their navigation log, which he doesn’t suppose anyone’s yet learned to fake over such a complicated journey.

“Yes, Concord is the administrative center of League space, but each system is autonomous, with its own local government. Concord resolves intersystem disputes only when such things arise. Its usual task is as an overseer and again as an administrative center. Just as Dunedin sends a representative to League Council, which meets at Concord, Concord sends a representative—in this case, myself—to be available to Dunedin should they need advice or a negotiator.”

She smiles apologetically around the table. “ _That’s_ the short explanation. I’ll see if I can get you an abbreviated library of League history and law, which ought to help. As it stands, bounty hunters are licensed from Concord as an intersystem covenant to deal with the small element of society which has been declared dangerous League wide. The man’s license and bounty are quite legal _and_ they were issued from Concord itself. Now do you see why there’s nothing I can do?”

Victor glances at Jody. Her face is tight, desperate in a way it’s not been since the days just after Alex’s departure. “But what were the charges?” he asks.

Now Clea looks uncomfortable. “Aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive. Felony accessory to intersystem flight. The physical descriptions were accurate, but they had part of their names wrong.” She meets Victor’s eyes. “It listed them as ‘Smith,’ not Winchester.”

Victor looks at each person at the table in turn. Jody next to him, then Pinto and the Mule, both quiet and sober looking. Benny sitting tight-lipped beside the Concord representative and finally Paisley, who insisted so loudly on attending the meeting he’d thought it easier to give in than to try to keep her out. Baby, out of a sense of prudence, he’s kept hidden. Currently, the robot is in the adjoining tac room recording the conversation.

“Winchester is the captain’s real name,” he says carefully. “I believe Smith was a name he used for expedience during the war. As far as I am aware Sam’s never used the name Smith.”

“The _war_?” Clea can’t hide her surprise. “You had a _war_?”

Victor exchanges startled glances with Jody. Jody shrugs. “We called it a revolution,” he speaks, even more carefully. “The old Central government was quite corrupt.”

“I must get you to Concord. When they hear about this they’ll certainly send an expedition with all haste. A _war_.”

“But what about—” Jody starts hotly.

Victor, daring much, lays a hand over her clenched fist and she stops, her lips thin with anger.

“You must understand we can’t go anywhere without our captain,” Victor says, quiet but firm. He realizes he’s still touching Jody and, a little embarrassed, he removes his hand. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Clea frowns. “I understand your concern. But in any case, you’ll be going to Concord as well. Although there are a number of routes you could potentially take to get there, one is more direct. I can only assume the bounty hunter will choose that one. When min Panowski comes aboard to go over this with your,” here another glance for the Mule, “navigator, it would be an easy enough question to ask. Whatever ship the bounty hunter’s commissioned will be listed on the public register by berth. Of course, I can give you no help officially, except the open credit.” She reaches into the pocket of her shirt and removes a thin, hand-size slate, pushing it across the table to Victor.

He fingers its slim casing but leaves it resting on the table. “So you suggest we follow the bounty hunter’s ship?”

“I don’t suggest anything,” Clea counters. “Although I will tell you I’ve frankly always disliked the Intelligence Bureau’s use of bounty hunters. It seems to me most bounty hunters are no better than the criminals they’re sent after.”

“Yes. Well,” Victor murmurs. “We have bounty hunters in Riven space, too.” For a moment, he feels he and Clea share an unspoken concordance on this subject, at least.

“There’s one more thing.” Clea looks toward Jody again, before she encompasses the whole group with her attention. “A warning. Once at Concord you’ll want to tell them about the—troubles in Riven space. But until you get there, I wouldn’t talk about it. You’ll find people—” she hesitates, “will treat you differently. We don’t have wars anymore. We don’t…” Hesitating again, she seems at a loss for what to say.

“Well, we don’t commonly have wars either,” Jody says tartly. “But you have to stay prepared.”

“I’m not sure what to say,” replies Clea. “Some people will judge you for coming from a society that’s prepared to have wars. Others will work so hard not to judge you, they’ll act,” she smiles ruefully, “rather like I am now. I only mean to advise you to be cautious in what you say.”

Victor nods. “I think I understand,” he says, although he’s not altogether sure he does.

She sighs, like a burden has been lifted from her, pushing back from the table she stands up. Victor stands as well. “Now. Min Panowski should be arriving soon to discuss navigation. I don’t doubt you’ll want to leave as soon as possible.”

The sudden movement of Paisley jumping to her feet startles everyone. “What about min Angelis?” she demands. “We can’t just leave him here. Captain wouldna’ like it. You know it be so,” she finishes, staring fiercely at Victor.

“Min Angelis?” asks Clea, regarding Paisley with a slight frown. “Ah. The former saboteur. We _are_ looking for him, min—Paisley, is it?”

Paisley nods, only just civil.

“We can’t afford to wait,” says Victor, brusque because he knows he would just as soon leave Castiel behind whatever the circumstances and he can’t help but wonder if his prejudice is affecting his judgment.

The look on Paisley’s face changes. Around the table, people brace themselves, because it’s clear a tirade is coming.

“I must go,” says Clea calmly into the encroaching storm. “If anything further comes to light about min Angelis, I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll show you out,” says Pinto quickly, with uncharacteristic politeness, and he escapes just behind the representative. The door hisses shut.

“You _can’t_ just abandon min Angelis!” Paisley cries. “It be _wrong_ o’ us to do it, just cause we feel ya cool at what he done before. But Captain will feel ya more hurt and sore if we show up without him. What do you think—”

“Paisley,” says Victor, “Dean and Sam have to be our first priority.”

“You just say that cause you be scared o’ him.”

“I think—” starts Benny.

“You think?” Paisley rounds on Benny without mercy. “You be ya worst o’ all. B’ain’t none o’ us here got ya right to judge min Angelis. We all killed, for min Jehane, so what be so different in us? And he never treated people different just cause they be _tattoos_. Bain’t no one else you would leave if—”

“Paisley,” says Jody in a deceptively quiet voice. “ _Shut up_.”

Paisley, mouth still open, stops talking.

“Maybe you’d like to volunteer to stay and look for him,” mutters Benny. “Since you feel so strongly. What, were you sleeping with him, too?” His mouth curls down with scorn.

“I asked,” says Paisley with dignity. “And he refused me ya proper way, showing respect for ya offer.”

“You _asked_ him!” Benny stands up. “That’s _disgusting_! How could you even want to _touch_ him? How could you—”

“He be attractive. He never treated me like there be something ya wrong with me just cause I got ya tattoos,” she retorts.

“You little _slut_ —”

“Benny! That’s enough!” Victor moves swiftly around the table to put himself between the two. “Mule,” he asks in a softer voice. “Is there anything you want to say before I—disband—this meeting?”

“Yes,” hisses the Mule, standing up. “I shall go await this min Panowski in quieter quarters. As for min Angelis, while I have sympathy for his predicament, I also see the need to follow the captain and his brother while we still have a chance to keep track of them.” Their hiss is fluid with Sta-ish laughter as they glance at Paisley. “I leave the decision up to you.” They leave.

“Thanks,” says Victor. “Benny?”

“I guess I’m too prejudiced to have a vote,” he says bitterly and he leaves before anyone can answer.

“Well, it be true,” mutters Paisley, unrepentant. She glances at Jody but doesn’t attempt to say anything more.

“Jody,” says Victor, sitting down like he’s too weary to stand. “What should we do?”

But Jody’s still staring at the table. “I can’t believe I let them take Sam and Dean,” she says in a low voice. “I can’t believe, with all my training—I feel like I,” her voice catches, “betrayed them.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” snaps Victor with real anger, hating the look of self-reproach on her face. “Charlie and Pinto said there was nothing you could’ve done. I don’t doubt their word.”

“You didn’t ask Charlie to this meeting, did you?”

“Someone had to stay on the bridge,” he replies, but the excuse sounds lame.

“Min Mills.” Paisley sets her hands on her hips, a remarkably prim, old-fashioned gesture in her. “They be gone now, so it be no use casting blame. We mun get them back.”

Jody lets the barest touch of a smile curve her lips. “I suppose you’re right, Paisley and damn my eyes, but that thing—that alien—was strong. I wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t happened to me.”

“Then,” says Victor, sounding relieved, “it’s settled. Flower wants to talk to the Stationmaster about the patients we have in Medical. As for Castiel, there’s a simple enough solution. We have an open line of credit. Once Castiel is found, we ask Representative Clea to send him—guarded, I suppose, since he’s not quite all there—on to Concord after us. Then we’ll all end up in the same place.”

Paisley sighs ostentatiously, but is forced to be content. Jody, however, remains seated waiting until Paisley leaves the room.

“Is something wrong?” Victor asks, aware it’s a foolish hope she’s stayed behind to be alone with him.

“A saboteur and we know he came from League space originally, before he got to the Riven. But I never found out how he got to traveling with the boys. Victor, what if he’s the dangerous fugitive? If he is, then Dean as good as admitted to those charges at the meeting, however unwittingly.”

“But that’s impossible. How could they have known Sam and Dean were traveling with him in Riven space? The Road’s been lost for generations.”

“How did Cas get over, then? And what about the privateer, Ellen Harvelle?”

“Or the one,” Victor muses, “who gave me this arm.”

They regard the arm together, with misgiving. “Maybe there’s something the boys haven’t told us,” Jody says finally.

“I hope not,” Victor replies, but he looks skeptical.

  


.oOo.

  


When Dean wakes, he merely lies still, breathing for a moment. One of the Ardakians is with them—one always is. He can tell by the smell. He wonders if this is how Cas always senses the world, with such strong smells, or if his sense of smell is tuned to subtler differences. Sighing, thinking of him and turns over, hoping it’s Fred with them now.

Seeing him open his eyes, the Ardakian grins.

“Hello, Fred,” he says with relief. Augustus never grins, aping human mannerisms. Dean supposes he thinks it beneath his large and imposing dignity. At the sound of his voice Sam also rolls over. “Can you unbuckle me so I can use the washroom?”

“Sure.” Fred undoes his leg bindings and loosens the ones around his wrists. Finishing, he glances around the tiny cabin and then leans closer to Dean. “Most humans ain’t so clean.”

His head provides a tempting target, but Sam and Dean tried once on a shift change to break out. The attempt was a dismal failure, although, in fairness, neither of the Ardakians seem to hold the attempt against them. Turner, he hasn’t seen since they left Dunedin some five days ago.

“It’s the only recreation we’ve got,” Sam answers for the both of them, sighing as Fred scoots back to his guard post beside the door.

“What is?”

“ _Washing_.”

“Oh, that. Yeah.” He grins again and appears to be thinking quite hard. “Could get you another disk for your slates if you got done with the texts Aug got for you yesterday.”

“No, we’re not done with them yet. But thanks.” Sam watches as Dean swings his legs off the bunk and does some leg warm-ups and then more strenuous exercise, limited in what he can do in the cramped space. After Dean’s done and washed up, Sam’ll get his restraints loosened so he can do the same.

Fred watches with his usual keen interest in anything physical. “Can’t bend my knees like that,” he says. He always says it. His voice pitched so low it sounds as much a growl as words, but he’s easy enough to understand once you get used to it, Dean reflects as he starts to do kata, adapted to their current situation. Augustus speaks in a deep but clear voice. “Nice kicks.” Augustus, of course, usually offers criticism of their form. To be fair, some of it’s useful.

“Oops.” Fred’s eye ridges lift, a sign they now recognize as his receipt of an order from some unseen communication hidden on his person. “Siddown. Boss is coming.”

Dean sits. Fred ties up his ankles. The door opens and Turner slouches in. He looks tired and unkempt. Dean suspects _he’s_ the one who doesn’t wash often enough. In the corridor, Augustus sits at ease on his haunches. One long arm balancing his body weight over the floor, the other holds one of the tiny, thin ubiquitous slates which are the League’s more advanced equivalent of the Riven’s comm-screens.

“Siddown,” says Turner, rubbing a hand over his eyes like the light hurts them. He blinks several times, making a sour face and looks at them, squinting. “Can you turn the damn lighting down?”

“Maybe you should drink less,” suggests Sam.

“I didn’t ask your opinion. We got a problem, Smith.”

“Winchester.” Dean interjects

“Winchester. Smith. What tha hell do I care? We still got a problem.”

“My heart goes out to you.” Sam quips

“He always this smart?” Turner asks.

“Nope,” says Fred.

“Yes,” says Augustus. “Although I must agree with the brothers your consumption of alcohol and other illegal and mind-altering substances is currently out of proportion to your body’s ability to efficiently metabolize—”

“Augustus, I didn’t ask your opinion neither.”

Fred nods sagely at Sam and Dean. “Boss ain’t feeling good.”

“Fred. Shut up. Now listen, ‘Captain’.” He says it with the barest sneer. “We’re coming in to Skye Station. They had some kind of disaster on the wheel a coupla days back and they just requisitioned the owner of this tub for the relief effort. So we’re stuck here ‘til she’s done and freed up by whatever officious high-level Concord official decided to interfere with legal commercial traffic like a damn—” He stops in a fit of coughing and reaches into his shirt pocket. Pulling out a small flask, he drinks a mouthful or two. “Anyway. We’re stuck here until we can get off. Might be two or three days. I’m not sure what happened, some kind of explosion, or a breach. But one of the boys is going to be on you two all of the time, armed. Both when they’re both awake and they don’t need much sleep. So do me a favor—”

“—and just be nice,” says Dean sweetly.

The contents of the flask have obviously fortified him because he ignores the comment. “Save it for Concord. I don’t know what they want you for. You can argue it out with them.” He turns to go.

“I don’t believe you,” Sam says.

He turns back. “You don’t believe what?”

“That you don’t know what they want us for. Even if you don’t know, say, specific charges, you must know generally.”

He shrugs, but his lips quirk, up and down and Dean wonders if some memory is making him uncomfortable.

“I still can’t believe they even know we exist,” he continues. “We’ve never been in League space before. They can’t have any record of us here and if we’d done anything criminal in the Riven—which we haven’t—how can it apply to a bounty here? There should’ve been a hearing first. Except it isn’t possible because no one in League space—” Sam stops abruptly, seeing some emotion flicker and fade in his face.

Strike for the weak spots, Bobby taught them. Dean asks. “Why did you ask us about Singer? How do you know him? Why did you help Cas—Angel get off Dunedin?”

He turns and leaves the room. The door sighs shut with finality behind him.

The door, closing, somehow triggers Dean’s memory. Nevermore Station. He _had_ met other people, besides Bobby, Pamela and Cas, from League space. He’d met the people Cas’d crossed to Riven space with.

“What were their names?” he whispers to himself, into his fist. The short, fair-skinned man who kept flushing and the dark woman with the strange dress—a swathe of gorgeous fabric, wrapping her from chest to feet—and the small red circle painted on her forehead. “Du—Du…”

“Bless you,” says Fred.

Dean laughs. “That’s it. Metatron and Dumah. The only other people who can possibly know who we are. Besides Ellen Harvelle and Dagon.”

“What would Ellen Harvelle and Dagon want with you?” Fred asks, surprised.

“Nothing, I expect. What do you know about them?”

“Nothing, ’cept they want nothing to do with me, neither, which is the best way to have it with pirates. No interest, either side. You think us bounty hunters got a bad repu—reputable …”

“Reputation?” Sam supplies.

“That’s it. Repu—tation.”

“Do you know why Concord wants us?”

Fred grins. “I’m not _that_ stupid.”

Dean grins back. “Just thought I’d ask. May I use the washroom now?”

By the time he finishes, Augustus has replaced Fred on duty.

“We will be docking in an hour,” he informs Dean and immediately returns to his examination of his slate. “Fascinating,” he mumbles. “The capillary shafts burst, causing the catalytic converter to overload at five parts per—”

“Excuse me—” says Dean.

“I’m just surveying the information I received off of Skye transmission concerning the disaster. Would you be interested in the electrical and mechanical specifications?” He sounds doubtful.

Doubtful enough that Dean decides to be quite interested in them and he and Sam have the pleasure of Augustus’ peevish explanations for the rest of the hour.

They dock and Fred arrives to join the escort. Turner meets them at the link bubble. An embarrassed-looking woman hurries away, passing them back into the ship at their approach.

After the civilized harmony of Dunedin Center, Skye is chaos. As they emerge from the berth tunnel the reek of burning chemicals hit them. Fred and Augustus stagger under the stench. Augustus even lets go of Dean’s arm, but because he’s still manacled and Sam’s still held by Fred, he doesn’t attempt to flee.

It would’ve been impossible in any case. They might have been able to lose themselves in the chaos, perhaps, but not run. They all have to press back against the closed berth hatch as two large motorized carts drive past at high speed, carrying—

Dean thinks they might be bodies, covered by tarpaulins.

People swarm the concourse, loading and unloading at berths, a hive of activity frantic but, beneath it, orderly. A man, face streaked with sweat and grease, rushes up to them.

“You the owner of this sloop?” he asks Turner, then takes in Augustus and Fred and Sam and Dean’s bound wrists. “Oh,” he says, dismissing them with reflexive disgust. “You’re the bounty hunter.” He turns away and tapping into the berth comm, starts a fast-pace discussion with the captain about a food shipment from Agnew Depot she’s being requisitioned to go pick up.

“Come on,” says Turner. “Let’s find a hostel and put up for now. Damn. I didn’t need this.”

They wind their way through carts and larger flat vans and people so engrossed in their salvage they take no notice of the strange party. Two spin locks bring them into the commercial concourse. Unlike Dunedin, whose decorations were almost colorless but busy with human activity, Skye’s walls and ceilings have no depictions of people at all. A thick grass-hatched door, the lintels and window frames and a wild motif of diamonds and woven stripes in a red, black, gold and ivory pattern the walls like a reflection of the chaos roiling around them. Turner quickly identifies a hostel and he leads them inside.

Refugees crowd the lobby. A man sits weeping in a chair, clutching a small child to his chest. Others sit silent, stunned or still in shock, on the rest of the chairs and on the mats covering the floor. A screen above shows a man talking, pointing to a chart, but the sound’s turned down and all Dean can hear, even above the quiet grief permeating the room, is the incomprehensible murmur of his words. His hair’s as tightly braided as Paisley’s, but his face, at least, bears no tattoos.

Turner gets to the desk and waits. A woman appears, looking harried. Her hands are wet. Wiping them on her dirty apron, she blinks and examines the party without much interest.

“What do you need?” she asks, not hostile, just preoccupied.

“A room,” says Turner. “We got bumped off the sloop we were on when they requisitioned it for relief.”

She shrugs. “Sorry. All my beds are taken. In case you didn’t know, a residential concourse got breached. Every hostel here’s full with those that got out.” Her eyes move pass them to encompass the people in her lobby. “I’ve got ’em sleeping in chairs. The other residential concourses are doubled or tripled up with survivors. Worst disaster—” She pauses to wipe at one eye. “Sorry.”

Turner sighs. “Can you suggest an alternative?”

She starts to shake her head but lifts a finger to tap her lips instead. “If you give time at the hospital they’ll give you a mat to sleep on in the hall. They’re evacuating the worst injured to Doncaster as fast as they can, but with all the machinery cobbled out to the repair effort, they need folks just to scrub the floors, if nothing else.”

“Thanks,” says Turner. His tone is so gentle he seems to Dean almost a different person. “We’ll try that. May as well help out while we’re here.”

This time the woman meets his eye with the first real interest she’s shown. “Bless you,” she says and turns going back to whatever she was doing.

“When did it happen? The explosion?” Dean asks as they left the hostel.

Augustus, checks his slate. “The initial malfunction occurred two Standard days ago, leading within six Standard hours to the main explosion.”

Turner interrupts Dean’s next question brusquely. “How do we get to the hospital, Aug?”

“We really going there?” Fred asks.

“Why not? It won’t hurt us to help ‘em out and anyway, our best chance to get out of here is probably to get space on one of the ships taking casualties to Doncaster. They’ll need hands to watch the wounded, if nothing else.”

“Really, Rufus,” replies Augustus, “do you actually expect Frederick and myself to endure such close company with humans in their worst state of—”

“Don’t smell any worse sick than they do well,” Fred points out. “You just don’t want to scrub floors.” He grins.

Augustus doesn’t deign to reply. Dean supposes the expression on his face, muscled rather differently than a human face, to be disgust. He meets Sam’s eyes and shares a smile.

But whatever hopeful prognosis for travel Turner hopes to find at the hospital, he’s doomed to disappointment. The activity in the concourses they pass through can’t and don’t prepare them for the sheer numbers of casualties overwhelming Skye’s hospital’s space and resources. Injured people wait patiently in hallways. Some of the children cry. The wards they look into are wall-to-wall beds with just enough pathways for the uniformed and unofficial caretakers.

The stoic fortitude with which the injured await treatment reminds Dean painfully of the riot in Richmond District on Arcadia, when he’d waded through the mob of wounded Ridanis who’d descended on the clinic where Cas worked, escaping the wrath of the Immortals.

Like a dream, he sees a swatch of blue hair down one corridor. He jerks to a stop, takes a step—and is yanked back by Augustus’ strong pull. The person with blue hair, clothed in white, turns—

Alien. Even at twenty meters the pattern of his—her—face is foreign. So close, in height and build, even to some extent in the planes of the face to Cas, but utterly alien. Je’jiri. Dean shudders and realizes they’re looking _at him_. He lets Augustus draw him back and follows almost meekly as Turner leads them through the labyrinth of misfortune.

Eventually he finds a medical tech who directs them to another medical tech who directs them to an adolescent in stained coveralls who leads them to a tiny cubbyhole of a room where a petite woman seems to be talking on three terminals at once.

She glances up, waving at them to wait while she finishes.

“—yes, thank the Mother for that physician. So they got out past vector all right? Good. There’s a passenger liner due in tonight we’ll requisition for another casualty ferry. I’ll need a list by oh-seven-thirty of eight hundred injured to put on it. Thanks. Dr. Kessler, are you still there? Yes, we need more penicillin. We’ve already had twelve reactions in people of Ridani ancestry to amoxicillin. No, he was killed, but the Concord official traveling through toward The Pale has agreed to stay at least another week and she’s not only done the bulk of the requisitioning work, but she’s put a fast yacht out to ask for code one disaster aid from Concord. So it’s just a matter of time. She’s coming to see me within the hour so I’ll have more information then. Good. Now, who are— _No_ , min. Your spouse is not injured badly enough to be put on the next ship to Doncaster. No, absolutely not. I don’t _care_ how much credit you have and frankly, you’re wasting my time.” She flips the terminal off completely, exasperated, and switches channels on one of the others. “Guthrie, how many times do I have to tell you to screen those calls out? Yes, yes, I know.” She sighs and cuts the connection. Looks up. “You can go, Aiden.” The adolescent leaves. She turns tired eyes on Turner, taking in the two Ardakians and Sam and Dean’s bound hands and feet. “I’m Marnie, the administrator here. What can I do for you?”

Turner places his slate on the surface in front of her. “I’m a licensed bounty hunter. I got stranded here when some Concord official requisitioned the sloop I’d hired for the relief effort. We’re happy to help out, so long as I can keep my prisoners secure ‘til we can get passage off.”

“A generous offer, min—” she clicks the slate, “Turner. Considering you’re stuck here in any case.” She smiles, but loses it when she looks up at Sam and Dean. Dean feels like they’re being examined for some obvious flaw he’s not aware of. “Do any of you have first aid training?”

“I’ve got a little,” Turner admits reluctantly. “Fred and Augustus here don’t care to be working so closely with humans.”

“Ah.” Marnie’s measuring look takes them in. “Ardakians. I understand. But certainly we have need for a pair of arms for cleaning and hauling.”

“ _Really_ Rufus,” Augustus protests. “Madame, while my cousin Frederick might be well suited to such menial chores, you would certainly be wasting my talents on them. I have sufficient expertise in—”

“Augustus,” cuts in Turner. “Let’s stick with the menial chores.”

Surprisingly, Augustus takes this rebuke docilely.

“And you, min—” Marnie glances at the slate again, “min Smiths?”

“Under the circumstances, we’re happy doing anything,” Sam answers. “But you’ll have to ask our keeper.”

“Limited menial,” Turner offers. “As long as they stay with the Ardakians and keep their manacles on.”

Marnie eyes the brothers with interest. Dean’s sure she wants to ask what they’ve done but is too polite to do so. “I’ll ask Alonso to detail you. Hold on.” After some tracing, she gets Alonso on a terminal. “At loading? That’s fine.” She switches off, but two more incoming calls light up the terminals, one face haggard with worry, another tight with impatient concentration. “You’ll have to make your own way down to loading,” she says, already distracted. “Ask for Alonso. He knows to keep you together.”

“Thanks. Get ‘em moving I’ll catch up in a moment,” Turner tells Fred and Augustus, who then have Sam and Dean out of the office fast.

They walk down a corridor apparently following another party, this one consisting of the adolescent Aiden, a white haired man leaning heavily on a cane and—

“Ash!” Dean calls. There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind the man walking in front of them is Ellen and Bobby’s son. Dean’s only met him twice but isn’t likely to forget him. Even from the rear and twenty paces behind Dean knows Ash.

When he doesn’t stop immediately, Dean calls out again. “Ash, you’ve got to help me. You know _father_ would want you to.” Augustus’ hand tightens on Dean’s arm but he continues anyway. “I’m being taken in on charges and they won’t tell me what they are, I got a ship out there I brought over from Riven space I _gotta_ get back to.”

“Excuse him, min. He is unbalanced. Come along on, Fredrick,” Augustus speaks.

“Hold on.” Ash turns and it’s obvious this isn’t Ash at all. She walks over to where they’re standing holding up her right hand and even Augustus hesitates. “ _Father_ would want me to?”

Dean understands his mistake instantly. “You’re the twin, the one who went bad,” he says. “You must be Jo.”

She laughs. “That’s true enough. But who are you?”

“My name’s Winchester, Dean Winchester. Sometimes known as Smith. This is Sam.” He looks at his brother quickly to find Fred’s got his hand over Sam’s mouth preventing him from speaking.

“And?” Obviously, neither name means anything to her.

“And I’m taking them to Concord on bounty,” Rufus has caught up with them. “It’s all legal.” He fishes out his slate, beginning to sound bored with this procedure. “Signed by Naomi Guberno, Concord Intelligence. Isn’t that an Intelligence crest on your jacket?”

Jo studies the slate. “Signed by Naomi.” She looks up at Dean. “This is all quite legal, min Winchester. Aiding and abetting…” She trails off. “There’s nothing I can do. This warrant’s been issued by the head of my own bureau.”

“You work for Concord Intelligence?” Despite everything, Dean can’t help but chuckle, a little. “Now I understand why Ash said you’re no longer received in polite society.”

“My brother,” she says, “believes in irony. But that still doesn’t explain your relationship to him. Or to our _father_.”

Dean looks at Turner’s angry, set face, gauging what to reply, but Jo’s expression suddenly becomes remote, like she’s listening to someone else.

“Yes, I hear you. Another ship is coming in? Good. A _what_?” She seems to be talking to herself, with appropriate pauses, but no one else thinks it strange. “An open letter of credit? And they call themselves—the _Royal Sovereign_? The ‘Hard-Luck Fleet’? Damn right I’ll want those specs checked.”

Dean gets a kick of adrenaline, he thinks his heart’s going to drop straight out of him. He can scarcely breathe. He doesn’t dare speak.

“Well, it doesn’t matter right now,” Jo goes on, dismissing whatever her unheard correspondent is saying. “Find out how much space they have on board. I’ll tell Administrator Marnie we have a new casualty carrier for Doncaster. Good. Put them in a berth convenient to the hospital and let me see their Captain when they’ve berthed. Out.”

Her eyes return to rest briefly on Dean. “I’d like to discuss this, min, but as you see we’ve got a disaster on our hands. Over eight thousand casualties and they’re not equipped to handle them here. I’m sorry.” She turns toward the door to Marnie’s office.

“ _I’m_ the captain of the _Royal Sovereign_.” Dean tells her.

“Some people will say any damn thing,” Turner says roughly. “Sorry,” he apologizes to Jo, “for the interruption, min. We’ll get out of here. Fred, Aug let’s go.”

Augustus jerks him forward.

He resists. “It’s true. I’m the captain. Jo, he’s _my_ father, too. You’ve got to—”

But Jo’s already disappeared into Marnie’s office and doesn’t hear him. The adolescent Aiden stares at them, curious in a half repulsed way.

Augustus picks him up bodily.

“Who’s your father?” Turner asks.

“None of your fucking business,” Dean snaps. Augustus hauls him into the elevator with the others and they start down to docking. “Aiding and abetting what?” he demands. “We have a right to know the fucking charges.”

Turner sighs. “Aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive. Now will you shut up?”

“Shit,” he mutters. Cas, of course. Who’s now on the loose in the very region where he’s counted a dangerous fugitive. Slung over Augustus’ shoulder, it seems impossible to find him before Concord Intelligence does.

And yet somehow, against all hope, the _Royal Sovereign_ is coming in to Skye. That’s something to start with. Fred finally lets go of Sam’s face and although he’s wise enough not to say anything he shares a smug smile with Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new family found.
> 
> * * *

Once they find him, Alonso’s got numerous tasks, none of which accommodate manacled workers.

“I tell you what,” Alonso says finally, having sized up the situation without Turner having to do much explaining. “We’ve got a security room up in Admitting for the occasional crazy. Since I hear we’ll be shipping out over a thousand injured by tonight, maybe I can clear it for you. It’s small, but secure. If you’ll come with me, min Turner, I’ll need you to show your license. I don’t suppose—” he pauses to look at the two Ardakians and at Sam and Dean standing between them. “Could you spare one of your companions to help? We just got a shipment of beds in, over there.”

Turner takes in the loading area with a glance. “Fred, go on and help. Augustus, take the min Smiths over to the corner there and stay there ‘til I get back.” He tosses a spare measure of manacle tubing to Augustus. “Use this if you think you need it.”

Augustus leads Sam and Dean over to the only quiet corner. He tightens the binders on their wrists and ankles, then trusses up their knees as well, leaving them propped up in the corner while he settles a comfortable distance away onto his haunches. Getting out his slate, he’s soon absorbed in some calculations. Except for the occasional glance he ignores them, although Dean suspects his other senses help him keep track of them as well. He starts to whistle Baby’s music, as much to practice his breathing as to remind Sam of who Jo is.

Sam whistles back slowly, next time he shouldn’t make the mistake of leaving Baby on the _Royal Sovereign_.

Dean agrees. Baby might even know what weaknesses the Ardakians have. Dean continues whistling. Turner he rates as dangerous by virtue of experience, but out of shape. The question is whether being on the edge makes him more, or less, dangerous. Dean suspects the former.

They see Fred now and then, out on the loading dock. The pace of activity is hurried, but orderly. It proves a soothing sight. The navy blue coveralls worn by the workers bear a passing resemblance to similar garments worn in Riven space. At least some things never seem to change.

A flash of blue hair. Dean tenses. It resolves into a Je’jiri half the warehouse away. The alien stops to speak to a man in coveralls. The man nods and the creature turns—away from Dean—and walks out of sight.

He relaxes, letting a sigh escape. Glancing back at Augustus, he sees another Je’jiri headed straight for them.

Augustus, startled by some instinct, also looks up. He doesn’t so much stand as lift his chest, giving him the illusion of greater height.

“Hey. Honorable. These are bounty prisoners. No parley. Comprehend?”

The Je’jiri stops about five paces from Augustus. He’s settled himself about four meters from Sam and Dean, but they can easily see the alien’s proximity causes Augustus considerable uneasiness.

“I beg pardon,” replies the Je’jiri in clipped but precise Standard. “Honorable. I serve temporarily the administrator here. We are seeking blood—” it pauses, Dean shudders, “compatibility. Some human blood types are of low stock. If I may test your—” they pause again to look at Dean and he recognizes from Cas the slight tilt of the head and brief shuttering of eyes. They’re taking in his scent.

“Why are they sending you around?” Augustus demands.

The Je’jiri curls back their lips. They have a ferocious smile. “We are faster than the lab.”

Augustus sniffs audibly and shifts yet another meter away from Sam and Dean. “Go ahead. But I request, honorable, you be quick about it.”

“Certainly, honorable.” But their attention has already focused past Augustus onto Dean.

Dean consciously restrains himself from shrinking back as the Je’jiri approaches them. A certain quality about their walk reminds him of Cas. Their hands—cradling a round basket of tubes and needles—have the same long fingered, slender grace his have. But their posture has a completely different set, like each movement stems from an utterly dissimilar kinetic foundation.

They stop beside Dean and bending their knees crouch. Their eyes meet at the same level. The Je’jiri’s glow green.

“You will pretend,” the alien asks in a soft voice, “we are not discussing anything but this procedure.” They draw a tube and needle from the basket.

Dean says nothing. He’s waiting for them to touch him. Preparing himself not to recoil when they do. Barely manages it. The alien’s fingers are cool, moving lightly on his skin as they bind a strip of elastic around Dean’s arm. With a quick jab, the Je’jiri slides the needle into place. Blood wells slowly up into the vial.

“You cannot be afraid of us,” states the Je’jiri. It’s hard to make out shades of emotion in their clipped delivery. “I don’t understand how, but you have a Je’jiri mate. Only a half breed, but of the Blood without question.” They pause.

“Yes,” says Dean, caught between repulsion and curiosity. “Yes, I do.” He glances past the alien toward Augustus.

The Je’jiri nods. “If you speak softly in falsetto, the Ardakian does not hear. The higher pitches are difficult for their ears.”

Dean relaxes slightly. He’s not sure he can pitch his voice high enough, but a shared look with Sam allows Dean to whistle his responses while Sam vocalizes them. “You’re not here only to take a blood sample,” Sam repeats, careful to say quiet as he pitches his voice into the correct register.

“I seek your help. I’m the Dai of my family. We were cast here on Skye by our previous employer. Soon this calamity struck. Now we are truly stranded, with none to hear our plea. But you,” she indicates Dean, “are bound to the Greater Family. We scented you when you entered the hospital. Now we seek your aid. We must get off this station.”

“We’re prisoners.”

“ _That_ we can help you with. If you can help us.”

“In another week or two, traffic will have returned to normal. Then you can get a ship—”

The Dai cocks her head to one side, a curiously predatory, but unthreatening gesture. “You do not know of our custom? We do not serve for credit. We have none. We serve an employer, who thus provides all we need. Our world is not so impersonal as yours.”

“I see,” Sam answers as Dean tries to remember what little he’s been told of the Je’jiri on the decks of Dagon’s and Ellen’s ships. He’s not sure how Dagon’s taking on a hunt relates to this. He whistles a phrase. “You want us to hire you.”

“Yes.” Some unfathomable expression crosses the Je’jiri’s face. “We have a child. She will come into adolescence within the week. Already the signs begin to show. She _must_ be isolated. In such chaos as this—” the briefest wave toward the loading dock. “We have one adolescent already and it is difficult enough to manage him in such close proximity to humans. We have no wish to be forced into a hunt. Please, help us.”

The sheer unexpected appeal of the Dai’s words decides Dean—as if the prospect of averting a hunt is not reason enough. “You can free us?”

“Yes. Not immediately. We will be indebted to you, honorable mate, for this offer.” She switches to taking a sample of Sam’s blood.

Dean stares into those alien, green eyes and feels suddenly this creature, whatever other impulses she might harbor within her, violent and horrible as those he witnessed, is indeed a creature of honor. Ellen Harvelle did say as much.

“Hey,” calls Augustus peevishly. “Are you done yet, honorable?”

“A ship will be docking,” Sam repeats, quickly and quietly. “The _Royal Sovereign_. He’s the ship’s captain. Alert the crew. Free us. If no other way, then get us aboard as part of the casualties. And he’ll give you a berth on the crew.”

The Je’jiri slips the needle out of Sam’s arm with a delicate tug and then lifts the vial to her lips. Tipping it, she touches her tongue to the red, fresh blood. She quickly does the same with the vial of blood from Dean. Trapped against the wall, Dean sees the murdered man on Ellen’s bridge with horrible clarity and each Je’jiri touching bloody fingers to thin lips. The same gesture their presence forced out of Cas.

Stoppering the vials, the Dai stands.

Dean’s fear of the alien recedes as their link to freedom starts to move away. “They’re moving us,” he adds hurriedly, before the Dai can go beyond earshot.

“We will find you.” Behind her, Augustus shifts as well, eyeing them suspiciously. “In any case,” she continues, just loud enough for Augustus’ benefit, “the hospital _does_ need his blood type.” She indicates Sam before turning, precise and elegant, grinning ferociously at Augustus and walking off.

Augustus lets out a great sigh of relief. “I _hate_ those blue hairs,” he states, confiding in Sam and Dean like they’re suddenly best of friends. “They give me the willies and they smell—not smelly like you humans. It is more subtle, but it makes me dizzy.” He looks over at them and slides a meter closer, like their presence makes him feel better. “I do not suppose you notice it.”

Dean smiles, deciding that perhaps he doesn’t dislike Augustus as much as he thought he did. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. They are—unnerving, though. What kind of groups do they travel in? We never saw them in Riven space.”

“A felicitous place, this Riven space,” replies Augustus. “I believe they travel in groups we would call families, or packs, ranging from ten to thirty people. Each family belongs to a larger unit, a clan and each clan to a tribe. Tribes are autonomous. These are human terms, of course. I do not know what the Je’jiri call them in their own language.” He hesitates, looking doubtful. “I could look it up.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind if you go back to what you were doing before.” Even on his alien face, Dean can read his relief. Augustus turns back to his slate.

Dean considers his new family. Ten to thirty! He hopes it’s a small group. Whatever else comes of this, the _Sovereign’s_ crew will know Sam and Dean are here. However they’ve followed them, they’ll know they’ve succeeded in finding the brothers.

He’s so heartened by this turn of events he greets Turner cordially when he returns. Rufus has Augustus loosen their restraints, allowing them to shuffle to the elevator and then through Admitting into a small room with one transparent plass wall. The secure room. It has a narrow bench and a single chair which swivels down from the wall.

Sam and Dean share the bench. Augustus swings the chair back up and settles in the space the chair occupied. Turner leaves, keying the door to lock behind him. Augustus gets out his slate. Seeing his absorption, Dean slouches down and wills himself to relax. Eventually he sleeps.

  


.oOo.

  


A certain amount of sound bleeds through the plass wall. Dean’s unsure what woke him, but he’s alert instantly. He doesn’t move or open his eyes, but listens. Hears it again. Faint, smothered by the plass and low hum of bustle and movement, but distinctly there. Victor’s voice.

Dean opens his eyes and yawns, stretching, as well as he can, sitting up against the wall. Out in Admitting a steady stream of stretchers flow from the hospital wards out toward the concourse beyond. Most of the injured have some kind of tubing attached to them.

“What’s going on out there?” he asks casually, abruptly recognizing three sets of paired Ridanis carrying stretchers. Rainbow and Paisley then Diamond with Flower, and Cursive with Flame, all from the _Royal Sovereign’s_ crew.

Augustus glances up from his slate. “Evidently they got a ship in to transfer more casualties to Doncaster. They must be loading.” He looks out as well, surveying the scene. “A primitive method of transference, certainly, but doubtless their usual system is so overloaded they have to resort to such measures to expedite the process.”

Victor walks through Admitting, speaking with—to Dean’s great surprise—Jo. Jo doesn’t even glance at the secure room, but Victor does. His eyes meet Dean’s for a measureless moment and travel on, seemingly uninterested in his presence. Behind, several more pairs of the _Sovereign’s_ crew go past, bearing stretchers. None look their way.

Rainbow and Paisley reappear, carrying a stretcher. A sheet rests on it, covering a large, curvaceous object. At the same moment, a Je’jiri emerges from one of the wards. Dean thinks it might be the Dai, but a second Je’jiri appears and Dean can’t tell which is the Dai, if either of them are.

Victor stops just beyond the door to the secure room, consulting a slate. Rainbow and Paisley pause at the door itself like they’re waiting for him, lifting the stretcher a little high up against the lock panel.

A few moments pass. The two Je’jiri approach the door, one carrying a basket of needles and tubing, the other a thin slate. They speak briefly to Rainbow. Looking apologetic, she and Paisley move away from the door.

Augustus sits forward on his haunches. “What do they want?” he growls. He tucks his slate into his messenger bag and shrugs his shoulders. It reeks of readying for battle.

The door slides open.

“What do you want?” He growls again, lower, threatening. “I have got prisoners in here. We have authority to hold them here without being disturbed.”

The Je’jiri regard him with an expression Dean can only call dispassionate. “I believe we have encountered before, honorable,” she replies, her formality contrasting with his belligerence. “I have authorization from the Administrator of this complex to draw blood from this human. His blood type is in low supply and there is urgent need for transfusion.” She indicates Sam.

“How did you get in here?” Augustus doesn’t relax his aggressive posture. Sam and Dean sit mostly still on the bench, only moving slightly so they can stand quickly if necessary.

“The Administrator gave us the key, honorable,” answers the Dai smoothly. “You’ll find it all in there. Now, min.” She turns to regard Sam with those large, fathomless eyes. “If you’ll lie down. My companion, who is also female, will draw the blood.”

Dean shifts to the end of the bench so Sam can lie down. The other Je’jiri kneels, close in against the bed and starts to assemble a needle, tubing and an empty pouch. Augustus wrinkles up his nose and studies the slate. He holds it gingerly between forefinger and thumb, like it smells bad.

Victor walks in the door. “Are these the other casualties we’re supposed to bring along?” he asks. After several days with Turner and the Ardakians, his voice sounds oddly unaccented to Dean’s ear.

“No.” Augustus shrugs his shoulders twice and takes a shuffling step forward. “Get out.”

“Sorry,” Victor replies meekly and turns away.

Augustus looks beyond Victor. “Orthodox tattoos,” he mutters. “I do not like this.” Victor’s still standing in the door, with his back to it. When Jody enters—obviously having missed her cue—from the concourse, Augustus clicks his teeth together. “Turner,” he says to the air. “Trouble.” He launches himself at Victor, pushing past the two Je’jiri.

Someone cries a warning. Dean thinks it might have been him. Victor whirls and instinctively throws a back hand to Augustus’ chest—it connects with his face instead.

The force of the blow slams Augustus backward. He hits the wall hard and collapses on the floor, his eyes open but dazed.

For an instant, everyone just stares, including Victor—who transfers his attention to the arm that did the damage.

“It’s fortunate,” the Dai states in a matter-of-fact voice, “Ardakians have thick skulls.”

“Get us out of here,” snaps Dean, recovering from his shock.

The Je’jiri retreat to the far corner. Rainbow and Paisley enter and drop a second stretcher hidden under the one they carry. They then get Dean to roll himself onto the stretcher without ceremony and cover him to the top of his hair with the sheet. At his feet, Dean feels a cool, humming curve. Baby starts to sing softly, but she’s muted by the sudden rush of noise as they hustle him out through Admitting.

“We be putting you in a van, min,” Paisley whispers.

They lift the stretcher and it rocks as they set it on a level surface. Dean can only see the pale sheet. A moment later he hears a second stretcher being loaded beside him then a motor, already humming, rises in volume and the van moves. Dean starts to lift his manacled wrists, to pull the sheet down. A hand stays him.

“Best to keep it up, Captain,” says Rainbow in a low voice. “We still mun get you onto ya ship. It be ya best as well not to talk, I reckon.”

Dean nods, keeping silent. The van motors along. He can hear the sounds of other people, shifting, asking a question. One moans. A child’s voice asking plaintively for their mother. Baby has stopped singing.

The van comes to a stop. Shoes scrape as a few people—presumably Rainbow and Paisley and the other mobile ones—climb out around him. His stretcher is picked up and he’s being carried again.

They pause.

“Derek Swan. Ten-forty-eight. Severe trauma to the head,” Victor’s voice sounds like he’s reading off a list.

“Check,” a second voice responds. She sounds familiar, but Dean can’t place it.

They carry him onboard. He feels the subtle change of pressure as they go through the link bubble.

“Engineering,” he says quietly.

A few minutes later they set him on the floor and pull back the sheet. Jody, Diamond, Paisley and Rainbow stare at him and Sam laying on a stretcher to his side, their faces ecstatic.

Dean rolls up to sit. “Thank the Void,” he says. “Good work. Baby, get these things off us.”

Baby snakes out an appendage and starts at Dean’s ankles, singing all the while:

_”Guess who just got back today_  
_Them wild-eyed boys that had been away”_  


“Baby got the door unlocked back in the hospital, didn’t she?” Dean asks. “And you coordinated it with the Je’jiri.”

“The _who_?” Jody asks. “Oh, them. Yeah. I guess all this time Cas was trying to look like them. I can’t imagine why. They give me the creeps.”

The last manacle falls away and Sam stands up, carefully, rubbing arms and stretching his legs. “What’s Victor doing?”

“Checking off the manifest. You two were in the last group. He’ll close the berth as soon as the last patient’s on and we’ll leave.”

“Did the Je’jiri family get on board yet?”

“Get on board!” Jody pauses. Her puzzlement fades abruptly as enlightenment dawned. “ _That’s_ what she meant. You’re taking them on board as _crew_?”

“We’ll discuss it later. Come on. Turner got alerted, we need to get secure. Lock everything down quickly.” He turns to find Brian gaping at them from where he stands by the main engineering console. “We’ll want engines within the hour.”

“Yes, Captain.” His reply is brisk. “Paisley, get over here and run the checklist.”

Paisley casts a last, elated glance at Sam and Dean and then returns to her duties. Baby, Jody, Diamond and Rainbow follow Sam and Dean out of Engineering and down the blessedly familiar corridors of the _Royal Sovereign_ to the main berth access.

It’s empty. They pass through the link bubble, Jody and Rainbow in front now, and pause to stare down the short tunnel. Victor stands talking, arguing rather, with Jo. He looks impatient. Beyond him, the van’s gone, already returned to the hospital for its next task. But clustered just beyond Victor and Jo stand a group of Je’jiri. The very alienness of their presence is disconcerting. All of them wear packs of varying sizes of their backs, even the small children.

Victor glances down the tunnel. He sees Dean and moves so Jo has to step back, and in the space created the entire Je’jiri family quickly file past him into the tunnel.

As they approach, Dean gives a sharp nod to Sam. “Show them to Engineering for now,” he says. “Once we’re clear, we can work out living quarters for them.” He meets the Dai’s bow as the woman stops and inclines her head, acknowledging Dean’s presence.

“Captain.” Her tone is respectful.

“My brother’ll show you to a place. Wait there, we’ll find you quarters once we’re underway.”

The Dai nods and speaks a few words in a smooth, alien language to her people.

Dean counts while she speaks. Ten adults—after what he’s seen on the _Roadhouse_ and learned from Ellen herself, he guesses five of each sex. Mated pairs and five younger ones. One a babe in arms, three older and one who’s almost of adult height yet who has an indefinable air of incompleteness.

That one is staring at Jody, an uncomfortable intensity in their gaze. As Dean watches, they abruptly start looking at him.

_His_ gaze. Dean isn’t sure how, but it’s obvious he’s male—young, not quite an adult, but quite male. He tilts his head to the side and Dean can tell he’s taking in his scent. The adolescent’s gaze moves past Dean, uninterested in him, moving on to Diamond. There’s interest in her. _Desire_ for her. Dean feels it like a wave of heat.

He has a high-boned face, light blue hair shading the startling green glow of his eyes—and Dean’s reminded of Cas. That’s when he realizes two of the adult Je’jiri are restraining him bodily, one holding onto each arm. Was _this_ an adolescent Je’jiri?

“You _can’t_ take them on board without proper clearance,” says a voice, close—too close.

“Get on board,” Dean says. The Dai, hearing the urgency in his tone, herds her family past. Sam leads them into the link bubble.

Victor hurries up, trying to ignore a righteous Jo who’s following him.

“It’s imperative with a family of Je’jiri that all obligations are met in full. Given the nature of the risks involved in hiring them, it’d be irresponsible for any Concord representative not to insist you—” Jo stops in surprise seeing Dean, narrowing her eyes as she tries to remember him. “Didn’t we just meet?” she asks.

“Stop them!”

Out on the concourse, Turner appears with Fred and Augustus at his back, flanked by two confused looking civilians in hospital jackets.

Jo turns.

“Retreat,” says Dean. He, Jody and Victor quickly move back into the link bubble with Diamond and Rainbow. “Baby, commence sealing.”

Baby plugs into the link panel. Jo turns back.

“Wait one minute,” she says and steps forward.

“Don’t come in,” snaps Dean. “Once we lock I’m not unsealing.”

Jo, either oblivious to this statement or else disbelieving it, walks into the link bubble.

The seal slides shut behind her.

“That man has a licensed bounty for you,” Jo says, looking at Dean like she can’t possibly comprehend him. “It’s illegal to flee a bounty. What are you doing?”

“I’m taking the casualties on this ship to Doncaster,” Dean replies. “Victor, get up to the bridge and get us detached.”

He’s speaking into his personal comm as he leaves. “Charlie get us moving.” 

Dean continues giving orders. “Rainbow get to Medical, Diamond I want you in the green room. Jody, catch up to Sam and get the Je’jiri in one of the empty labs. We need them isolated.”

“Dean—Captain—all of the labs are filled with casualties.”

“Double up the casualties somewhere else. Believe me, we’re safer if they’re isolated. I’ll explain later.”

“All right.” Jody sounds skeptical but she leaves. Dean follows them all, Baby trailing after him.

Jo keeps at his heels. “You don’t understand,” she continues. “Do I have to list how many laws you’ve just broken?”

Behind her, the second seal slips shut, cutting them off completely from Skye Station.

“Feel free,” says Dean, turning to head for the bridge. “You’ll have plenty of time to give me the details because you’re not getting off until Doncaster.”

“You’re really prepared to go through with this?” She still sounds disbelieving. “It’s kidnapping.”

“So be it,” Dean sighs.

“Furthermore, as a member in good standing of the Intelligence Bureau, I have the authority to arrest you. Perhaps you don’t understand how serious—Wait one minute. How _do_ you know Ash and my dad?”

Now Dean does stop. “Ash is my half-brother. You’re my half-sister. I’m Singer’s heir.”

This news so confuses Jo, she follows him quite meekly all the way to the bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Boys Are Back In Town** by _Thin Lizzy_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligations and commitments.

Victor and Jody trail discreetly behind Dean as he conducts min Roberts—whom he continues to call Jo—on a tour of the casualties crowding the _Royal Sovereign_.

“The Mule can’t be serious,” Victor says in a low voice to Jody as they pause, not wanting to seem too much like bodyguards, three meters behind Dean when he stops to discuss the state of the injured with the physician detailed from Skye to supervise this shipload.

“Quite serious,” Jody replies. She looks at him and his doubts dissolve in the face of her adamancy. “I heard it from Dean myself, he’s only half-human.”

“He did always say blue was his natural hair color,” Victor muses. “I thought it was his peculiar sense of humor.”

“Peculiar, all right,” Jody mutters.

“I _still_ find it hard to believe,” Victor protests stubbornly. 

“They’re so—” Jody hesitates, opening and closing her hands to make up for her lack of verbal description, “so weird. I can’t imagine sleeping with one.”

“I don’t know. They have a certain—something. They’re so visceral.” He ponders.

Jody shudders. “You would consider—” She stops. Victor can’t tell if she’s disgusted or—is it too much to hope, so soon?—unconsciously jealous.

“They’re handsome, in a completely extraordinary way.”

“In a completely alien way. Although I must say,” she gives Victor a quick, conspiratorial grin, “Cas has his own unique charm. I might have—ah—tried him myself if it wasn’t for Dean.”

For some reason this confession sours the entire conversation for Victor. He manages to return her smile, but only because his urge to scowl would certainly cast him in an unfavorable light.

“Victor.” To his relief, Dean’s turned and is beckoning to him. Victor walks over to him. “What happened to the six patients we had in Medical who were still in comas? Dr. Garrison said Medical only has Skye casualties in it and Flower said she’s completely free to help him.”

“Ah,” Victor says, feeling uncomfortable under the scrutiny of Dean, the doctor and the suspicious gaze of Jo. “I took the liberty of transferring those patients to Dunedin’s hospital. Stationmaster—Dunedin Coordinator Scallop assured me they would be well cared for.”

“And you didn’t have a physician onboard,” Dean nods. Victor agrees. “Good. They’ll get better care there, and if any of them do recover both Scallop and Clea can explain their situation to them. At least they’re as close to Riven space as they can be.”

“And alive,” Victor says.

Jo shakes her head. “Is medical care that backward in this Riven space? I can see a full report to Concord will be necessary. There’s no reason a thorough educational program and exchange can’t be worked out to upgrade the current state of medicine there. People shouldn’t have to live that way.”

Dr. Garrison’s shaking his head and clicking his tongue in agreement.

Dean looks at Victor and purses his lips slightly, hiding a smile. Victor keeps his face carefully neutral. “Well, Jo,” Dean speaks heartily. “We’ll have to ask you lead the expedition. I’d love to go myself, just to introduce you personally to the current head of the government.”

“You have a _single_ person heading your government?” Jo asks, looking shocked.

“In any case, Dr. Garrison,” Dean says, neatly sidestepping the question by returning his attention to the physician, “there should be no problem with min Flower assisting you as much as you need.”

“Thank the Mother. No Station is staffed to handle a disaster of this magnitude. We have to send one physician on each ship. As you know, most of the other people I have are volunteers who have little more than the usual first aid training. If that physician hadn’t turned up fortuitously, not more than four hours after the main explosion—but he did. He pitched right in without even an invitation and we sent him with the first casualty ship to Doncaster.”

“Yes, but you have such a fine medical system here,” says Victor, unable to resist throwing this barb in Jo’s direction, “surely it wouldn’t be _that_ unlikely for a doctor to happen by, on a trip, or a passing ship.”

“Of course not,” answers Dr. Garrison. “But one whose _specialty_ is emergency medicine? Who trained at _Oxford_ , of all places.” He speaks the name with respect, even awe. “Yes, he was a little strange, both in his manner and the old fashioned style of dyeing the hair blue. Marnie wasn’t sure we ought to put him in charge, but he was clearly competent at medicine whatever his other peculiarities, so what choice did we have?”

“ _Blue hair_?” Dean demands.

Garrison shrugs apologetically. “It’s really a Terran style that died a natural death. Those of us bred in the outer reaches, who see Je’jiri more frequently, are less likely to think it a lark to imitate them.”

“A lark?” Victor asks under his breath.

“You said he went on the first casualty ship to Doncaster?” Dean asks, hounding this point.

Garrison nods.

“How long ago did that ship leave? Before us, that is?”

Garrison waves a hand, unsure. “You must understand standing here talking to you is probably the longest break I’ve had since the explosion. I simply don’t know.”

“About a day and a half before us,” Jo tells Dean. “Why are you so interested, Captain?”

“We’re halfway to Doncaster now, is that right, Victor?” he asks, ignoring Jo.

“Three windows out from Skye, three in to Doncaster, by our charts.”

“Except we’re going rather slower because you only have one pilot and one nav officer,” Jo points out, forcibly reentering herself in the discussion.

Dean regards her for a long moment frowning.

“Captain,” Garrison speaks tentatively. “If I may get back to my duties?”

“Of course.” He speaks absently, but the doctor nods and hurries off. “Jo.” He says her name like he’s come to some conclusion about her. “As your half-brother, I feel I can trust to blood ties to ensure your support. You know what business our father was in.”

Jo looks torn between pride and shame. “Yes. He’s one of the saboteurs.”

“Have you ever heard of a saboteur named Angel?”

“ _The_ Angel?” Jo’s eyes widen, giving her a surprisingly childlike look of wonder. “The _Angel_ who saved Dad’s life after they blew Murchison Station? He operated on him with only a laser pistol, a Swiss army knife and a—”

“—six year old Kapellan girl to help him. Yes. That Angel.”

“Can’t be.” Her eyes narrow, considering new information. “He’s in Concord prison. He was arrested twenty, thirty years ago.”

“He’s not there anymore,” Dean tells her.

“How would you know?”

“He was traveling with us.”

Jo regards him thoughtfully. “Oh, he was, was he? I’m going to tell you a little classified information. He wasn’t actually in Concord prison. He was in the maximum security psychiatric ward. What are you trying to tell me?”

“Void help us,” Victor breaths. “The psychiatric ward.”

“I think he’s the physician who showed up at Skye,” Dean says. “We need to find him and get him back on board this ship.”

“How did he get out?” Jo demands.

“He took one of our skiffs at Dunedin—”

“I mean, from Concord prison. There’s never been an escape. Not in its sixty year history.”

“I don’t know.”

“I suggest you find out. I’ll have to check the records. _If_ I’m given permission to disembark at Doncaster, Captain.”

“Let’s not stand on ceremony,” Dean says, not a little caustically. “Call me Dean. Ash does.”

For an instant Jo looks taken back at this reference to her twin. “Dean,” she says. To Victor’s amusement, the informality seems to make her uncomfortable. “From what I remember—and I may be mistaken—”

“Surely not,” murmurs Victor under his breath.

“—and he may have been rehabilitated since he was institutionalized, but Angel— _the Angel_ —was labeled dangerously unstable and I believe he committed several murders when he was an adolescent. Some social psychiatrist got him off—they always do—and he was rather pushed into the saboteur network once his aptitude for medicine was discovered. They needed a certain kind of people, you understand.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.” Dean looks a little angry, but Jo clearly doesn’t know him well enough to attempt to soothe him.

“Understandable. With my background I was raised in the thick of it, and neither Mum or Dad saw anything wrong with such an irregular life for a child. Ash certainly never minded it—I’ve had to arm myself with knowledge to protect myself from—” She stops, looking abashed. “I even slip into primitive military terms, as you see.” Recovering herself, she assumes a more comfortable stance. “Once the Skye relief is settled, you let me handle this business. You don’t want someone like him on board this ship.”

Dean sighs. “Jo, has anyone ever told you that you’re sanctimonious?”

She stiffens. “That’s unkind, Dean. I refuse to be labeled a hypocrite.”

Dean chuckles, laying a hand on her arm in a gesture meant to be brotherly. “I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re a hypocrite. But you have to trust me, Jo. Angel belongs on this ship. When we reach Doncaster, will you help me?”

“I can’t make unconditional promises, you understand. I have certain duties as a member of the bureau. I’ll have to look into his records and interview him. What’s the charge on your bounty?”

He hesitates, but it’d be impossible to hide the truth from her when she can easily discover it herself. “Aiding and abetting—”

“—a dangerous fugitive.” She shakes her head. “I’ll give you and Sam the benefit of the doubt and assume you didn’t know what you were doing at the time.”

“Thank you.”

Jo’s clearly oblivious to irony once she gets going.

“That’ll give you some immunity. Once I’ve seen Angel, if I can make a case for it and I promise to review the data with as much impartiality as I’m capable of, I’ll plead your side once we reach Concord.”

“Once _we_ reach Concord?”

“Of course.” Jo looks surprised. “As soon as Skye is past critical disaster response, we must get your news of Riven space and the recovery of this vessel—as amazing as it is—to Concord. Didn’t you tell me you were headed there in any case?”

“Jo, why would you plead our case if you believe Angel to be dangerously unstable?”

She blinks, looking surprised. “Because you and Sam are my brothers.” The ‘of course,’ although unspoken, is loud and clear.

“I should tell you, then, it was Victor, not me, who said we were headed to Concord. To settle salvage rights for the ship. If it’s Concord that put the bounty hunter after Sam and I, I’m not sure I _want_ to go there.”

“But where else would you go?”

“How about The Pale?”

“I wouldn’t advise it. Not with a ship whose frame is good but whose software is more than a hundred years out of date. You can’t afford that kind of disadvantage there.”

“That’s a good point.” Dean pauses. “We’ll see,” he defers, to satisfy her. “But whatever happens, I’m glad to have your company. I didn’t get much of a chance to get to know Ash.”

“Ash’s rather wild, I’m afraid,” replies Jo, but a smile tugs at her lips as she says it, a certain gleam of nostalgia lights her eye.

“He took after Dad, I suppose,” says Dean, but before Jo can agree he realizes with a sudden weight of dread she doesn’t know about Bobby’s death.

“What’s wrong?” Jo asks.

“Nothing,” says Dean. “Let’s finish the tour and then we’ll have something to drink in my cabin.”

Jo looks at Victor, silently asking him to explain Dean’s sudden change of tone. But Victor only shrugs.

It takes over an hour to walk through the makeshift wards, but Jo seems satisfied with the disposition of the casualties and Dr. Garrison, seen again briefly, is quite pleased with the addition of Flower to his severely shorthanded staff. Afterward, Dean suggests they break in the captain’s cabin. Jody offers to fetch drinks. While she’s gone, Dean checks in with Sam on the bridge about the countdown to the next window.

“We have over two hours,” Dean states as Jody returns with a tray of drinks, setting them down on the small table by the couch.

Jo sighs and slides gratefully into the chair. “They made these exploratory ships to be both utilitarian and luxurious, so the crew wouldn’t go crazy on the long trips out. Those were the days. How did you get a hold of her?”

“We found her.” Dean picks up a mug, but turns it round and round in his hands rather than drinking. “Quite by accident. The _Royal Sovereign’s the_ ghost ship of Riven space. For generations other ships would pick up her distress beacon and lose it. We stumbled across her. We still don’t know how she got where we found her.”

“Her original crew?”

“Gone. Without a trace. Like they all simply vanished.”

“There must’ve been some record on her log.”

“It’s gone as well.”

Jo smiles. “It makes a good mystery. Most of the first major exploratory fleet never came back. The return of the _Royal Sovereign_ will add to the ‘Hard-Luck Fleet’s’ legend.”

“Jo,” Dean starts, determined to break the news of their father’s death to her before he loses his resolve.

“Which reminds me,” she replies, like he’d just said something else. “Based on the little I’ve seen of your records and log, they confirm you’ve indeed come from Riven space. Therefore, I have to assume you are unfamiliar with League covenants. This matter of your bringing a Je’jiri family on board, for instance. Besides the usual respect for foreign cultures, habits and needs, there’s a very serious aspect of Je’jiri-human relations you aren’t aware of. _Very_ serious. Which is why I recommend you _don’t_ take them on.”

Dean sets down his drink. “I already gave my word and I know what the prohibition is.” He has no trouble recalling Ellen’s words. It’s impossible to forget the scene, the terrified man begging for mercy at her feet—mercy so utterly denied him. “‘No human will mate or have intercourse in any sexual or sensual fashion with Je’jiri,’” Dean quotes. Jo’s obvious surprise at his knowledge doesn’t gratify him at all. It was too hard won. “I intend to keep them isolated and to warn my crew of the full consequences of such—relations with them.”

“What consequences?” Victor asks, but he’s already exchanging a look with Jody, beginning to form some conclusions.

“How does Benny work into this?” Jody asks.

“Benny? The comm operator?” Jo looks from Jody to Dean.

“We’ll leave him out of this for the moment,” says Dean. “I’ll hold a general assembly of crew once we’ve off loaded the casualties at Doncaster and have a moment to breathe.”

“Let me give you a piece of advice,” starts Jo.

“Please,” murmurs Dean, but he can’t refrain from grinning a little and, seeing Victor’s expression, he has to look away.

“Evidently, you have five paired adults in this family of Je’jiri. But the _adults_ aren’t the ones you need to worry about. They have their own methods of staying isolated from members of the opposite sex, especially non-Je’jiri, those who might be foolish enough to attempt sexual relations. It’s the adolescents who are dangerous.”

“They’re violent?” Victor asks, glancing at Dean but thinking of Castiel.

“Violent?” Jo muses over the word. “I’ve never thought of the Je’jiri as particularly violent. Certainly not as violent as humans.”

“You’ve never seen the end of a hunt,” Dean says grimly.

“Yes, I have,” she replies smoothly. “But Je’jiri don’t have a history filled with wholesale murder justified by personal greed, national security and religious intolerance.”

“You sound like you admire them,” Dean says with a shudder, unable to reconcile her calm tone with his recollection of their brutal murder of the man on Ellen’s bridge or of Cas standing over the bloody corpses of Trenton and his soldiers.

“Why shouldn’t I admire them? Like any wild predator on Terra or Ragesh 3, they might have their territorial quarrels, but they don’t murder their own kind and they don’t kill indiscriminately. They roam in small packs and live by a few straightforward customs that govern them all equally.”

“I thought you weren’t a xenologist,” Victor says, sounding suspicious.

Surprisingly, Jo grins. “I’m not, but I admit to being prejudiced in their favor. I saw a lot of them when I was young and I came to respect them. They can be vicious fighters and they have customs—or behaviors—which seem savage to us.” She nods at Dean. “The hunt being one of them. You’ll find other people who think them little better than beasts and some who’ve even repeatedly tried to have them barred from League space entirely. Frankly, most people are indifferent to the whole subject.”

“They give me the creeps,” Jody mutters.

Jo chuckles. “It’s funny,” she muses. “I never saw my dad flustered by _anything_ , not under the worst circumstances, not even the time I sabotaged his operation at—well, never mind that. But I swear Je’jiri made him uncomfortable. Not to show it—he’s an actor and skilled at hiding his true feelings—but still…” She trails off, pausing she looks directly at Dean. “When’d you see him last? How was he?”

Dean bows his head. He’s no actor. He can’t disguise his sorrow. His silence is statement enough.

“Are you trying to tell me he’s dead?” Jo demands. She sounds suddenly furious. “I don’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs wishing Sam was here instead of on the bridge. He forces himself to look up so she can read the truth in his face.

She stands up and has trouble setting down her drink because her hands are shaking. “Excuse me,” she says in a tight voice and moves to the door. Once there, she pauses, reluctant but dutiful. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the quarters you assigned me.” And leaves.

The door shuts behind her and Dean mutters, “Damn. I could’ve handled that better.”

“I don’t understand,” Victor says. “I met the Saress, your mother when we were at Campbell house, she said your father died _years_ ago and he could never have been in League space.”

Jody lays a stilling hand on his arm, but Dean shakes his head slowly not at either of them and sighs. “I have two fathers, Victor. One is blood, the other is spiritual, but in a way he is—was—closer to me than the one who fathered me biologically.”

“I see,” Victor replies, knowing he doesn’t. He’s distracted by the fact Jody’s still touching him, her strong hand cool on his upper arm.

“Dean.” Jody, like it’s an afterthought, removes her hand and picks up her mug instead. “What’s so serious about this prohibition with the Je’jiri?”

“In a sentence? If you sleep with a Je’jiri, their mate will— _has to_ —kill you.”

“Has to kill you?” Victor looks doubtful, “That sounds barbaric.”

“What if they’re not mated when you sleep with them?” Jody asks, ever practical.

“They mate for life, monogamous. Once they mate, the mate will track you down and kill you. That’s what we meant by a hunt.”

“But how can they possibly know?”

Dean shrugs. “Their sense of smell is different to ours. I’m not sure how.”

“But years might’ve gone by,” Victor protests.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Benny was your lover before—” He hesitates, not sure this is acceptable ground.

Jody, always quick to see the absurd, laughs suddenly. “Cas _smelled_ Benny on you? That’s why these Je’jiri singled you out back at Skye Station.”

“What do you mean?” Victor asks, feeling more and more strongly this is not a conversation he wants to participate in. Jody has a certain bluntness about her sometimes which makes him uncomfortable and he’s afraid they’re veering into subjects he doesn’t feel intimate enough with either of them, and certainly not with both together, to be discussing. The realization makes him wonder if he’s perhaps a prude.

Jody laughs again. “They must have _smelled_ Cas on him. If their sense of smell is that subtle and you’ve been someone’s lover for long enough, it must be pretty obvious.” She grins. “I’m liking them more and more, and if Cas really is half Je’jiri, it’d make sense to approach Dean.” She turns to Dean. “Isn’t that right?”

“If you add in honor compelling a relative, which I vaguely qualify as, to help those in need, then yes,” he nods, “it is. Or at least, it was my impression at the time the Dai, the woman who approached me, expected as the—the mate of a Je’jiri—”

“Even if he’s only a half-breed?”

“Even so, that I would without question help them. What could I do?”

Jody smiles. “Combined with your unfortunate habit of taking in strays, I don’t suppose there was anything else you could do.”

“I suppose,” Victor eagerly changes the subject, “we ought to get a full set of the… What did she call them? ‘Obligations Regarding Je’jiri-Human Relations’ from min Roberts. If we’re really going to take them on. What do they do, anyway? Once they’re crew?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean admits. “Which reminds me, how did you end up at Skye Station in the first place?”

“We had a bit of surreptitious help from min Clea at Dunedin.” Victor smiles. “I think she felt sorry for us, ignorant and rude barbarians from the outer lands.”

“Isn’t it funny how everyone here uses the Ridani ‘min’ as an honorific?” Jody says. “I never heard anyone but tattoos use it in the Riven. No one would ever consider using a tattoo word, especially not as a courtesy. I think it more than anything else made me realize how different it is here. That and you see so very few old people.”

Dean’s silent for a moment. Finally, he looks up, at each in turn. “Are you happy you came?”

“Yes,” Victor tells him, surprising even himself at how easily the answer comes to him. “Yes, I am.”

Jody doesn’t answer for a long time. Dean simply regards her without expression. But Victor feels nervous. He knows she’s thinking of Alex and he’s afraid what her answer might be.

But when she moves, she reaches to take first Dean’s hand and then his. The simple ease with which she includes him takes Victor’s breath away.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m glad Owen and I are here, with you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Dean stay ahead of the brewing storm?
> 
> * * *

They arrive at Doncaster almost the same time as the requisitioned passenger-liner-turned-casualty ship, which by Jo’s calculations would’ve left Skye half a day _behind_ them. The ship Castiel presumably was on has already left, having discharged its cargo and, according to traffic control, returned to Skye to render further assistance.

Owen sits drumming his toes on the underside of the tac table while Dean discusses these facts with Pinto and the Mule. Except for Sam and his team of Ridanis left guarding the link bubble, everyone else has been detailed to help unload the casualties under the joint direction of Victor and Jo.

“Every crewmember is capable of spotting Cas,” Dean says. “They know not to approach him. But if the bounty hunter gets here on the liner, Sam and I have to be cautious.”

“If they find him?” the Mule asks. They don’t look up from the three-dimensional chart displayed in the table showing vector routes available from Doncaster to Concord.

“Jody’ll notify me and shadow him until I can get there. Jo promised to see if Turner’s checked into traffic control. Evidently bounty hunters are required to do so at each station or planet they come to.”

“Do you trust them?” asks the Mule.

“Turner to check in? No, but I am fairly hopeful Jo’ll tell me if he does.” The Mule hisses appreciative laughter.

Pinto yawns. Owen watches the tattoos around his mouth stretch and collapse in the movement. “She asked me what orthodox sect I belong to,” Pinto says. “ _Orthodox sect_? She’s the fourth person to ask me that. Do you have any idea what it means?”

Dean shrugs. “No, sorry.”

Pinto shakes his head. The beaded braids of his hair click quietly and still. “I’ve looked over this chart five times,” he says, a little grumpily. “I’m tired. Can I go?”

The Mule continues to peruse the display, ignoring his complaint. “Go ahead,” Dean agrees and Pinto sighs noisily and leaves. Dean follows him out with his eyes then turns his attention to Owen.

“Dr. Garrison mentioned you’ve been a great help to him, running errands and guiding his staff when they get lost. Thank you.”

Owen smiles, pleased to be the object of his praise. But Dean’s attention quickly shifts away. He studies the table in silence and Owen senses his thoughts are elsewhere. He feels a fourth presence in the quiet room, one of the ghosts of the _Royal Sovereign’s_ previous crew has entered and settles into the seat beside Dean to study the tac table with equal intensity.

“Mule,” Dean speaks, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. “While I’m waiting for news on Cas, I need to go down and meet with the Je’jiri. You were there this morning when I spoke with the _Sovereign’s_ crew about their…” Dean chews on his lip for a moment before continuing. “…background. I wonder if you might be the ideal person to serve as—I’m not trying to offend you but—general liaison with them.”

Mule looks up at him. Their crest raises slightly in an expression Owen can’t interpret. The stillness in the room seems charged with some emotion. The ghost at the table evaporates under its force.

“You feel,” hisses the Mule, fluid but neutral, “because I’m sterile I’m also asexual and therefore safe with these aliens.”

“Partly,” Dean admits, but he doesn’t look ashamed to be saying it, merely straightforward. He regards the Mule frankly. “You’re also only half-human and presumably only half as susceptible, perhaps your Sta ancestry will make you less attractive to their adolescents. I understand the girl’s finally crossed into the first stages and they’re having to isolate her from the boy.”

The Mule hisses, long and slow. “Because you respect me enough to be frank, Captain, I’m not offended.” They give a little swift slip of sound, a Sta-ish chuckle. “It may be you are more correct than you know in thinking I and they will be safe together.”

“Thank you.” Dean turns to examine Owen. “I think it’s probably safe for you to come along as well. You’re young enough.”

“Oh, they like me,” Owen confesses. “The Dai said I could come play as often as I wanted to. Joshua is just younger than me, but he knows math and the computer a lot better. He’s smart.”

“How often have you gone down there?” Dean demands and Owen realizes he’s made a tactical error in speaking so freely.

“You won’t tell me not to?” he pleads, feeling desperate. “I like them.”

“We’ll see,” Dean replies with an adult’s usual and deplorable ambiguity. “I’ll have to speak with your mother.”

Owen doesn’t bother to protest further, knowing it’ll prove fruitless. Instead, he trails along behind them as they go down to bronze deck and the three room lab in which the Je’jiri have made their quarters.

Surprisingly, the Dai meets them outside the door. She looks disturbed by something and as soon as she sees Dean she inclines her head and waits for the party to stop before her.

“I was coming in search of you,” she explains in her precise Standard. As she speaks she moves her head from side to side, a subtle movement nothing like a shake of the head. Rather, she seems to be taking in information about the three people standing before her. All the Je’jiri have this habit. Owen’s almost used to it. “The man who calls himself Pinto must be removed from our rooms.”

“ _Pinto_ is here?”

The Dai shades her mouth briefly with one slender hand. Owen catches the impression of suppressed revulsion from her, but she hides it quickly. “My sister’s child has passed into adolescence. Already we have isolated her from my son. In this early stage the young have no ‘self-control’ I think is the word.” She pauses, politely, for Dean’s assent.

Dean’s mouth draws tight with anger. “Pinto’s always been lacking in self-control. Especially in regard to attractive people he views as potential partners.”

The Dai regards him with an expression too alien to interpret. “Human men are singularly lacking in this trait. It lends you a rather barbaric quality.”

Dean laughs, starts to reply and then sobers, like a different, less amusing thought has occurred to him. “I came to speak with you, but let me deal with Pinto first.” The Dai inclines her head again and precedes the little group into the lab.

The room is stark. In the intervening days the lab furniture has either been removed or pushed to the walls so the main room gives the impression of a wide expanse of floor, big enough to move easily far and fast. The room is empty except for two young children building circuit-like patterns with clip-in blocks on a flat nubbed board, a single adult sitting cross-legged on one of the high lab counters with a slim computer on her—his?—lap and Pinto.

Pinto doesn’t even notice Dean’s entrance. His attention remains riveted to the door on the right side of the lab. It stands half open and a young face of remarkable, exotic beauty and a fierce intensity of expression peers around the opening at him. The sexual tension in the air is palpable.

The adult sitting on the counter glances up, taking in Dean, Owen and the Mule with the same slight side-to-side shake of their head then speaks a few words in their alien tongue to the Dai. The Dai replies not with words but with a brisk series of gestures with one hand.

After a diplomatic pause, Dean addresses the Dai. “If I may,” he says and together they look at Pinto.

At the sound of his voice, Pinto glances around. It’s a little hard to see because of the tattoos, but he flushes and takes a step both away from Dean and from the door in which the Je’jiri girl stares hungrily at him.

“What are you doing here?” Dean snaps.

“I—” He hesitates.

“Against my orders. I thought I explained the situation so any _thinking_ person would understand.”

Pinto glances back at the Je’jiri girl. She watches the exchange eagerly like any strong emotion excites her interest. “I thought I’d come get acquainted—” he starts.

“Pinto. She’s _off-limits_.”

“She’s no younger than Paisley,” Pinto retorts, hot.

“Pinto. You’re confined to quarters until such time as we need your services on the bridge, or I have time to drill into your stubborn brain you _will not_ and _cannot_ bring your Ridani polyamory culture into this particular community. It’ll be lethal.”

“You can’t order me around like that, or make your damn prejudice comments about—”

The Mule steps forward unexpectedly. “Pinto,” they hiss softly but without sympathy. “I suggest you do as the captain says.”

Pinto stiffens with fury. Owen braces himself for an outburst, but instead the pilot keeps silent and merely stalks out, throwing one glance back at the girl still staring out at him before he leaves.

As soon as the door slips shut behind him, the seated Je’jiri slides smoothly off the counter and directs a string of harsh words to the girl in the inner doorway. The young woman’s face reflects a stream of emotions from anger to mocking humor to brief contriteness and she vanishes back into the room behind her.

“I thank you,” the Dai tells Dean.

“He’s still young,” Dean says. This explanation evidently satisfies the Dai, because she turns her attention to the Mule.

“This one,” she says, “I have scented. She has ancestry of a civilized race, I think.”

The Mule’s fluid laughter hisses quietly.

“I was hoping,” Dean speaks, “the Mule might serve as a more appropriate—more acceptable—liaison between your family and the ship’s crew.”

As the Dai considers this, Owen edges away from the adults over to the two children. Without speaking, or even looking up, they move so he has a place to sit with them. The eldest, Purah, hands him a delicately traced black block to add to the growing pattern.

Because they talk as they play and he doesn’t understand them, it’s easy for Owen to observe both the game and the adults. With the expulsion of Pinto, the main room gains sudden life. Je’jiri adults come out of the third room. They have a brief conference with the Dai and two of them carry a lab counter into the center of the room. The Dai invites Dean to sit on it and he does so, without even hesitating, following her example in climbing up on it—albeit slightly less gracefully—and sitting himself cross-legged in careful imitation. Then the five other adults carry a second counter close to it and seat themselves there, watchful. A moment later four more adults come from the room the young woman is exiled in and sit on a counter set against the far wall, separate from Dean and the Dai by the counter on which the other five adults sit. Owen’s spent enough time with them he’s beginning to distinguish male from female. The four set back from the central counter are the women. The children continue their game, oblivious to the meeting. The Mule, after refusing a seat, remains standing.

“As you know, I’m Elder Sister and Dai, my personal name is Anna,” the Dai starts formal introductions of her family. “These are my sisters: Hand Sister Adina, Hawk Sister Gail, Fleet Sister Ingrid and Younger Sister Hester.” They incline their heads from the back row, each acknowledging Dean as he returns their nods in turn. “These,” she motions to the men. In a row, their blue hair is startling and almost garish. The women’s hair are less brilliant shades of blue almost greenish in hue. “These are my brothers: Elder Brother, my mate Inias, Hand Brother Akobel, Hawk Brother Nathaniel, Fleet Brother Indra and Younger Brother Jofiel.” The same inclination of the heads are exchanged, although this time they seem much more personal.

“If I may ask,” Dean speaks.

The Dai, Anna nods.

“Is it a custom among your people for the women to sit farther back?”

The Dai shows her teeth, a feral grin. “I take no offense at this question,” she replies. “It’s not in our family. Your male presence is disturbing to them because you are—” her hesitation is palpable. “You’ll take no offense I hope?” She pauses while he nods his agreement. “I mention a condition peculiar to your species. All human men are always receptive.”

“Receptive? Oh.” The tone of his voice makes Owen actually look up from the game to examine Dean. “I see. Yes. Well.” His eyes stray to survey the four women.

“Although I think perhaps not you.” Her head tilts to the side taking in Dean’s scent. “You share the profound bond with your mate.”

“The what?” Dean asks.

“Profound bond. It should be impossible with a human, but it is unmistakable now I have scented it.” Anna, the Dai, looks at him for a moment. “When we mate for the first time a bond is created.” One of the men moves from where he was sitting to sit beside Anna. Their posture remains the same as the other sitting Je’jiri, but it seems to Owen they lean into each other. “Before we were two. Now we are two parts of the same whole.”

“So you’re as one?” Dean questions.

“No I am one, Inias is one, together we are a whole greater than our separate selves.” As she speaks the other Je’jiri are moving, the second lab bench is carried forward and the couples each sit together.

“But you didn’t find me disturbing before you recognized this profound bond?”

“As Dai, I am required to speak for our family and am therefore better able to deal with humans, both men and women.”

Dean nods and speaks more brusquely. “I came to discuss the terms of your employment. I agreed to take you on because of the obligation I feel toward—” he hesitates.

“Your mate,” answers the Dai, not allowing for there to be any question.

To Owen’s confusion the emotion on Dean’s face looks like anger and it puzzles him how Dean can be angry with Cas. He gets a quick, confused memory of blood and bodies lying prone on the bridge.

“Yes,” Dean repeats in a cold voice. “My mate.”

Owen is aware when she replies it is as the Dai not as Anna. The Dai either ignores or doesn’t hear the coolness in Dean’s tone. “Honor required us to help a kin’s mate, we were able to assist you in escaping.”

“Yes. Which puts me under an obligation. But I don’t know what terms are usual for such a relationship with you and your family signing on as crew and I’m worried about how to keep the human members of my crew safe.”

“You have not a familiarity with the treaty laws established between my people and your League?”

“We’re not from the League. We come from a place where there are no Je’jiri.”

“That is curious.” The Dai sweeps a comprehensive glance around the large room. Her eyes linger on the Mule before they return to Dean. “It’s better you locate such terms in your human libraries, so you understand them completely, but I will attempt to outline the main points.”

Dean nods.

“First, on your part, you will provide nourishment, care and quarters of sufficient size, enough to hold the family and permit the isolation necessary to our living. This suite is small but it will suffice, as there are separate rooms for the two lodges and a common room.” Owen watches Dean nod his understanding. “Second, on your part, you will instruct your human crew in matters of protocol. Such as you and I, being both Captain and Dai, can easily work together.” She takes a moment before continuing. “Such as the young man who entered here must be kept separate from Hael, the adolescent girl and any women of little control from my adolescent son Thaddeus. For our part, we will keep our two near-adults isolated from the main population, just as we must keep them isolated from each other. In this matter, the one you introduced as the Mule might safely act as liaison, as she currently exhibits no characteristics which might disrupt either our people or yours.”

“ _She_?” asks Dean softly, but he continues before the Dai or the Mule can respond. “What other terms?”

“Our obligation to you then continues in the services we can provide.”

“And those include?”

“Any work we are capable of which doesn’t violate the prohibitions on contact with those of your crew who might be dangerous to us or to whom we might be dangerous. We have discovered as well we Je’jiri function well within human computer systems. Fleet Sister and Fleet Brother have special capabilities in these matters and have familiarized themselves with ship functions in particular. I believe they settle all major terms.”

“How long does such employment last?”

The Dai blinks. It seems a deliberate gesture, not a reflex. “Until it has ended,” she replies, like the answer is self-evident.

“I see.” Dean’s voice stays carefully neutral. “I’ll consult our library for any further information on our agreement, but I do want to know why your last employer abandon you?”

The silence in the room abruptly holds a palpable tension. A few of the Je’jiri shift uneasily.

“Your kin,” the Dai speaks, the clipped precision of her speech even more pronounced, “possess what you call laws, but we have cause to notice how often you break them. Our last employer found a lucrative cargo at Skye and preferred to evict us from our rooms to use such space to transport it. We were thus cast out into what soon became the disaster. A terrible event for your kin and the force of the strong scents pushed two of our children into sexual maturity before their time. Before we could find a family with a near adolescent girl who would wish to mate with Thaddeus in due time. That cousins should mate is—” she might have shuddered, but to Owen it’s more a sense of her powerful revulsion at such a prospect than any actual movement conveying the emotion to him, “Impossible. But it’s difficult to keep two adolescents apart under such chaos as Skye Station must endure at a time of disaster. Your arrival was a great bounty to us.”

“Then I’m glad,” Dean says quietly, “we’re able to help each other. If I may, I do have one last question.” He hesitates until the Dai moves her hand in a universal signal to continue. “You said the profound bond I share is impossible.”

It is Anna not the Dai who answers. “You will not find this in your human libraries. When we reach our maturity our bodies yearn to find the other who we will enrich and who in turn will enrich us. It is what you call a biological imperative.

“Je’jiri and humans do not bond. There is no likeness to find likeness.” She must see something in Dean’s face as she starts again. “If Hael were to have sex with your young crew member, she would not find a bond there; she would still be driven to find Je'abai. But you and your mate are Je'abai together. This is unheard of and, until I scented the profound bond on you, I thought impossible. You feel his lack in your very bones, this is why you are driven to hunt.”

“No! That’s not what I want—” The distress in Dean’s voice tears through the room.

“Not all hunts are _the hunt_.” Inias speaks for the first time.

“I think I need to leave you to get settled while I check on the rest of the crew.”

The Dai inclines her head. “I have only one question,” she states. “But it’s of little importance, merely a curiosity.” At Dean’s expectant look, she continues. “Who are the other presences on this ship? Why have they not left?”

“What other presences?” Dean asks.

Owen stands up. Nodding politely, but quickly, to Purah and Joshua, he hurries over to stand beside the Mule.

The Dai doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she casts her head about, their slight side to side motion, as she takes in some other sensory information. For a moment her keen eyes rest on Owen. He shrinks a little closer to the Mule, sure she knows he knows about the ghosts too. It’s clear to him she’s guessed some secret about him. She shows her teeth, like they’re accomplices and returns her eyes to Dean.

“The other presences,” the Dai repeats. “You have a word in your tongue—ghosts. The ghosts of the crew who lived aboard this ship before you. All scents linger on after one has passed to the next place, but theirs are strong, like they’re somehow still here.”

It takes a long time for Dean to reply. He looks caught between disbelief and curiosity. “You can _smell_ the original crew?”

“You cannot?” the Dai starts, then makes a swift gesture of apology. “Forgive me, I forget you are deficient in this sense. You wouldn’t be aware of them, unless they appear to you through some other means. I think perhaps you have seen them.”

“No,” Dean says, still too amazed by this revelation to be anything but honest. “I’d no idea. We wondered what happened to them. We found the ship abandoned.”

The Dai shakes her head slightly. “They don’t speak to us to tell us how they’ve came to both leave and not leave this ship.”

“I don’t know.” Dean shakes his head, an echo of the Dai. “I don’t know.”

By the door to the corridor, the comm clicks and chimes.

“Captain.” It’s Benny’s voice. “Jody and Victor are back aboard. They’re looking for you.”

Dean uncurls himself quickly. Recalls his surroundings and waits for the Dai to get down off the counter first. All the Je’jiri slip down to stand, respectfully.

“I need to go.” The Dai inclines her head and Dean returns the gesture. “I’ll send the Mule later with any specific assignments.”

“It is well,” agrees the Dai and she escorts him to the door. The Mule and Owen trail behind.

Outside, left alone in the corridor, Dean fingers the nearest comm. “Benny, where are they?”

“Still at the link bubble.”

“All right. I’ll meet them there.” He glances at his two companions. “You may as well come with me.” His gaze pauses meaningfully on the Mule. “I may need you.”

They—she?—nods but doesn’t speak as they make their way quickly to the link bubble. Jody and Victor wait there with Sam, but Dean slows as he nears them. The expression on their faces is message enough.

“He’s gone,” Jody says without preamble. “No trace. I’m sorry.”

“He _was_ here,” Victor adds, speaking almost on top of Jody, like he’s aware Dean needs this news immediately. “He worked in the hospital here for a number of hours, then he just vanished. No one really noticed when he left.”

“What kind of station security is there? They’ve no record of him being seen?” Sam sounds angry.

But when Dean speaks Owen hears the fear in his voice. “Void knows he’s noticeable enough.”

“We checked through—what do they call it?—both the traffic manager and Doncaster Link’s coordinator. They say in a place this big it might be impossible to trace him. He could’ve gone downside—there are three planets in this system which take traffic. One’s inhabited. Shuttles leave all the time. But they offered to keep an eye out on the station itself.”

“There is one strange thing,” says Victor as Jody pauses for breath. “About a third of the people we talked to in the hospital think he’s Je’jiri. They didn’t know about any human men with blue hair.”

“I don’t know what to make of that,” says Dean, sounding impatient. “What about the bounty hunter?”

“Hasn’t registered here,” Victor replies shrugging. “For what it’s worth.”

Sam and Dean share a significant look.

The link seal opens to reveal Jo. She holds a slim comm-slate in one hand, glances up from reading it and sees Dean.

“Dean. Good. I was just coming to get you.”

“Yes?” Dean’s voice sounds ominously unwelcoming.

Jo seems oblivious to his mood. “All casualties have been transferred to Doncaster’s main hospital. According to the reports from the liner which left Skye after us, there are enough injured left that two carriers are needed to accommodate them. The first ship’s already gone back. The liner will return to pick up its passengers and continue its cruise and we’ll get the second load.”

“Jo.” Dean’s anger gives his voice a clipped tone. “Cas is loose somewhere in this system, for all we know he’s lost his memory entirely. We have to find him first. Whatever your respect for the legalities in League space, I’m _not_ turning myself or Sam back over to the bounty hunter, who’s still doubtless stuck at Skye.”

Jo frowns and sighs. “Dean. You’re upset.”

“Damn right I’m upset!”

“Wait a minute. I’m not saying your concern isn’t legitimate. Quite the contrary. I agree finding Angel is our highest priority,” she starts to relax, “ _after_ Skye’s disaster is relieved. There are people back there who’ll die if they aren’t transferred to available medical care. That _must_ come first with me and unfortunately I have authority as an employee of the bureau to requisition this ship over your protests. It doesn’t mean I’m not sensitive to your feeling responsible for a member of your crew—”

Sam laughs.

“Did I say something wrong?” Jo asks.

“Never mind,” Sam murmurs.

“What if I refuse?” Dean demands. “To take the ship back to Skye.”

“Refuse? How can you refuse?”

“Can you force me to go?”

“Force you? People’s lives are at stake. Do you seriously believe Angel’s life might be in danger?”

“It might be.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Perhaps not in danger immediately, but he’s—he _needs_ me, he needs us.” Dean makes a gesture but it’s hard to tell if he’s just including himself and Sam, or if he’s including the whole ship in his statement.

“The fabled Angel? Somehow I think he’ll land on his feet.”

“That’s all very well, Jo, but what if we lose his trail? By the time we get there and back he could be anywhere in this system, or have taken ship for somewhere else. How are we supposed to find him if we lose him here?”

Jo blinks, looking surprised. “You have a family of Je’jiri on this ship. Tracking him down will be the least of your problems. I worry more about what you’ll be able to do with him once you find him again.”

“The Je’jiri,” he murmurs, remembering what Inias had said. “I can call them to hunt.”

“Not quite,” she replies with a wry grin. “But just as efficient.” Now she sounds conciliatory. “Help me with this. I’ll investigate the charges brought against you and take it upon myself to escort the two of you personally to Concord.”

“We still haven’t agreed to go to Concord with you.”

“ _Dean_ —”

“After we find Cas, we’ll discuss it.”

She sighs. “After we find Angel.”

“Agreed,” he says, but Dean neither sounds nor looks pleased with the decision. “Victor, get all crew back on board. I want us out of here as fast as possible. I’ve got two Je’jiri to put on shift in comm-tac. That ought to help our speed. The Mule will act as liaison to them.”

“Wait. Wait.” Jo raises a hand. “I’ve got a medical team coming on board and a full complement of equipment and supplies for the relief effort.”

“Then get them on fast,” Sam tells her while Dean continues giving orders.

“Victor. Mule. Get moving. Jody. I’ll need a guard on Pinto’s quarters until such time as I personally lift it.” Jody’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth to speak, shuts it and salutes. “Sam, put everyone else on loading detail. Well?”

They disappear quickly, leaving only Owen and Jo.

Jo grins. “Remind me not to cross you.”

“You already have.” Dean gives her a debilitating glare and then, waving Owen along in front of him, heads for the bridge.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished business.
> 
> * * *

Paisley sits vigilantly on the couch gracing the outer room of the captain’s suite. When the outer door opens to admit Victor, she greets him with a respectful but adamant look. “Captain be sleeping. Be it ya important news you bring?”

Victor smiles. “Have you appointed yourself guardian?”

“You may laugh,” Paisley says darkly, “but someone mun do it. Min Baby could do it, but she be ya busy and sure none of us can understand her in any round, not less she wants us to.”

Victor walks across the room and lays a hand on Paisley’s head, his fingers tangling in her dark mass of tight braids. “I’m not laughing at you, Paisley,” he says gently. “I think you’re the kindest person on this ship.”

“That may be. But I reckon it be min Mills you wish were ya kinder toward you.”

He removes his hand hastily. “What do you mean?” he asks, a little stiffly.

Her grin gives her an impish look. “I reckon you know right well what I mean.”

“It’s none of your business, Paisley. I’ll thank you to keep your opinions and meddling to yourself.”

“Sure,” she agrees. “But min Mills be like everybody. She be mourning over Alex now, but she mun have ya…” she smiles again, seeing she is embarrassing him, “ya _kindness_ soon enough. You just got to be there when she be ready.”

“I thank you for the advice,” he says with a reserve quite at odds with the warmth with which he’d originally greeted her. “Now I’m afraid I have to wake Dean.”

“What be ya news?” she asks, returning immediately to her pose of the watchful guardian.

He shakes his head. “We’ve got a problem with the bounty hunter. I can’t decide whether min Roberts is completely evenhanded and compassionate or just totally gullible. She let them on the ship.”

“Let them on ya ship!” Paisley jumps up and runs over to the inner door, pressing the comm.

After a moment a sleepy voice says, “Winchester here.”

“Dean,” Victor speaks, not waiting for Paisley to reply, “you’d better get out here. Your sister—”

The door slips open and Dean, looking rumpled, his hair still tousled from bed, appears. He straightens his henley as he speaks. “What’s wrong?”

“The bounty hunter got on board.”

His sleepy expression vanishes. “How?”

Victor sighs. “One of his companions got injured welding and somehow got on the list of casualties to be transferred to Doncaster. Alien physiology, something like that. They aren’t equipped to handle it here at Skye.” He pauses, expecting Dean to reply, but he doesn’t. “There’s some argument over letting the other one go with him, but they’re cousins or something and when Administrator Marnie brought the matter to Jo she said it would be cruel to separate them under the circumstances and we’re the last casualty ship to go to Doncaster. So they got the clearance to come on.”

“What about Turner?”

“He’s got first-aid skills. The medical team we brought is for Skye Hospital—they’re still running over capacity, but not so much that they can’t handle it for the short term, _with_ the extra help. So he—Turner—volunteered his first-aid skills for this trip.”

“And Jo, of course, wouldn’t refuse the help. Is the Ardakian’s injury serious?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get that information for me. Turner could’ve faked the entire thing.”

“How could he have done that?”

“You said yourself they don’t have anyone qualified in alien physiology.”

“But wouldn’t Jo be suspicious? Wouldn’t she check?”

Dean combs his fingers through his hair with impatient disregard for how it looks. “Jo’s respect for other beings is clearly the model on which all civilized behavior should be based. But she’s forgotten people like Turner lie as easily as they breathe. Damn. Let me wash up and change first.”

As Dean turns, the outer door opens and Benny charges in.

“Dean!” Seeing Victor and Paisley, he stops. “Ah, Captain. Some man’s appeared on the bridge claiming he’s got right of access to monitor all of your and Sam’s movements until you turn yourselves in under his escort at Concord.”

“What the Hells does he think he’s doing?” Dean demands. “He’s on our ship. We outnumber him thirty-five to—no, with the Je’jiri, forty-five adults to three.”

The lights go out. Someone in the room gasps, but it’s not clear who. Emergency power kicks in and the lights glow again at their lowest level. Maintaining life support. The comm clicks and clicks again, a familiar voice sounds.

“Captain,” Turner sounds tired. “Augustus has gone into your operating system and rearranged a few files, only he has the key. To cut the bullshit, first vector you try to run without those codes, the engines'll blow, stranding you here or in vector space—wherever that is. Like I said, Augustus’ got the codes so this ship’s now under my control. As long as you cooperate, there’s no problem. I’ll return control to your officer here once we’ve turned you and Sam in at Concord. All life support to any areas with casualties is unimpaired. Unfortunately, the rest of you are on minimum.”

“Thus keeping Jo pacified,” Victor mutters.

“Do you copy?” His voice, over comm, doesn’t sound particularly triumphant.

Unexpectedly, Dean grins. “So he’s going to play that game, is he? I don’t know how good Augustus is, but Turner doesn’t know I’ve got Baby. Victor, back to the bridge—No, wait. Benny, who’s on the bridge now?”

“I was. Baby, Charlie, the Mule and Pinto, and one of Jody’s mercenaries who seems to be following Pinto around.” He makes the question implicit in the cadence with which he ends the phrase.

“Never mind that. Benny, return to the bridge. I don’t care how you do it, but get Baby out of there and back to me. Victor, find Jody. I want her and everyone she can spare, armed and up in this room. Paisley, find Owen and tell him to go to the Dai and ask her to send—” he pauses to think of their names, “Ingrid and Indra, Fleet Sister and Fleet Brother to me. I want to see if they can dig past whatever Augustus has done. On no account are _you_ to go into the Je’jiri’s quarters. Absolutely. Then go to Medical and ask Flower to personally check on the other Ardakian’s injuries.”

“Wouldn’t this all be faster to do on comm?” Benny asks.

“If Turner’s not bluffing and Augustus has gotten into operating systems, we can’t trust comm to work for us. Victor, you’ll be running the first window from the bridge. Give Turner your full cooperation.”

“But min Winchester,” Paisley protests, “if we got so many, why can’t we just overpower them? They only be three.”

“Because I don’t think Turner’s bluffing.” As Dean speaks the outer door opens again admitting Sam into the room. “Took you long enough.”

“What’s the plan?” Sam asks as he walks into the room, taking note of the occupants.

“I’m going to see what the Je’jiri and Baby can make of the problem first.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Victor asks.

He grins as he walks to the door leading to the inner room. “Make sure he’s sorry he ever tried it. Though I’ll give him credit for audacity.”

“But what are you going to _do_?” This time from Benny.

“I’m not sure yet,” Dean admits. “But remember, we got our training from _Master Smith_. Just get Baby to us.”

  


.oOo.

  


In the dim light left to them in the inner room, Sam and Dean stand motionless at the foot of the bed watching Jo pace and lecture. Baby, having come in with her, floats a handbreadth above the bed.

“Weapons!” Jo exclaims for the fourth time. “You have crew sitting out there with weapons!”

“Is there a law against it?” Sam asks quietly.

“Why would anyone need a _law_ against it? Why would any civilized person want to carry a weapon anyway? Unless you’re a disciple of the martial arts and need it for a demonstration or for practice, I suppose. I’m disappointed in you.”

“I’m a practicing martial artist. I can’t resist sparring with my opponent.” Dean grins at his brother.

“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

“Jo, considering how short a time we’ve known each other, there’s no need for you to come on so strongly. We got enough of that growing up. This is _our_ ship, after all. I’d like to know what gave you the right to authorize admitting three known hostiles aboard it?”

Jo stops pacing. She settles into her most characteristic position, arms crossed on her chest, chin up, mouth turned down. It is, Dean reflects, almost a parody of their father’s gentle but stern teaching style. “They’re not hostiles,” she starts.

“Before you and Baby got here,” Dean interrupts, “we received a report from Paisley. The Ardakian admitted as a casualty is faking it and has barricaded himself and his cousin into our comm-tac room, while Turner sits gloating up on the bridge. I can’t even get our personnel into comm to run the highroad—”

“You forget we’re already running out system with one of the Ardakians on comm and will reach the first window in an hour.”

“—or to find out if Turner’s damaged our operating system in some way.”

Jo uncrosses her arms to shake her hand at him. “Now let’s take these accusations one by one. First, they are not hostiles. They’re citizens of League space.”

“Which we’re not.”

“That’s not the point here. Second, they’re not carrying weapons.”

“ Jo, they don’t _need_ to carry weapons. They _are_ weapons,” Sam splutters.

“They’re twice as strong—” Dean hesitates, thinking of Victor’s accidental blow with his artificial arm which had thrown Augustus across a small room, “as any human. It’s no wonder Turner keeps them as partners.”

“Did it ever occur to either of you loyalty and a feeling of kinship might be a more powerful motivating force than expediency?” Jo asks primly.

Dean chooses to ignore the comment. “What if I tell you now we’ll go freely to Concord? As free citizens of Riven space? But I’m not letting some bounty hunter bring us in. You’ve yet to explain to me how Concord Intelligence could’ve brought charges against people who’ve _never_ been in League space until—what?—two months ago?” He looks at Sam to confirm the time frame.

“And third,” Jo continues, “there’s no guarantee this ship belongs to you and your people in any case. It all has to be resolved at Concord.”

“You’re not answering his question.”

Jo looks uncomfortable. She glances away from them, sweeping her eyes around the room like its decoration suddenly interests her.

“You can’t tell me, can you?” Dean prods.

There’s a long silence. She sighs abruptly and moves without asking permission to sit down on the bed. “I have no authority to countermand the bounty. I don’t work in that division.”

“Ah,” Sam says, sitting down next to her. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The silence following this remark seems almost companionable compared to the argument beforehand.

“It’s hard for me to believe he’s dead,” Jo says at random, but they know she’s speaking of their father. She smooths out the bedcovers with one hand, like the action sooths her and then looks up at Dean, thoughtful. “How did you met Angel?”

“A League ship somehow got into Riven space. He was on board.”

“Supposedly rehabilitated. Isn’t that what you said? I don’t understand how a trip like that could be kept secret, but it must’ve been, or I certainly would’ve heard about it.”

“Exactly what division do you work in?” Sam asks.

“Human Services. My specialty is ‘Disaster Relief’. I got a lot of practice in my youth. But Dean, did you meet anyone else from the expedition? Do you remember names?”

“Yes. A woman called Dumah and a man, Metatron.”

“Dumah—that’s such a common name these days. Can you describe either of them?”

“He was short, rotund, quite light in complexion though he flushed a lot, brown curly hair. She was taller, olive colored skin, black hair.” Dean pauses, trying to picture that long ago scene in his mind. “I know what I remember best about her. The clothing she wore. It was sort of a—” He can’t find words for it and turns to Baby. _Baby,_ he whistles. _Is there a term for it, do you remember?_

_Assuredly, Dean,_ she sings, ecstatic to be of service. _The woman designated Dumah wore clothing usually called a_ sari _, which was the ancient indigenous dress of a people called_ Hindu _, who in prespace times lived in a nation state designated as_ India _in the common tongue._

“Thank you. I’m quite impressed, Baby.” And he smiles.

Baby acknowledges the compliment with a quiet but rather florid trill.

“Mother bless me,” breathes Jo, staring at this exchange. “You’ve bonded her. I just thought she was some old relic you cobbled together to perform calculating functions on the bridge. Do you know how rare these are now? It’s an Impala, isn’t it?”

“Yes—”

“It has to be an Impala.” Jo continues to stare at Baby’s gleaming surface. “They tried about six models on that AI program. The El Caminos never achieved full function. The Corvettes all burned out quickly. The Chevelles' proved too unstable to be reliable—they’d lose their input function but continue to output. The Volts couldn’t interact with humans. Only the Equinoxes and the Impalas had any stability at all. And when the Catholic Church eventually combined with the Church of Three Faiths, they got a court order impounding what Equinoxes were left, keeping them for religious purposes. That ’bot is an invaluable relic.”

Dean replies, a little overwhelmed by this recital, “I knew she was invaluable. Anyway do Hindu, India or Sari mean anything to you? She also had a red dot in the middle of her forehead. I remember that.”

For a moment Jo looks taken back. “Red dot? Wait a minute. The woman Dumah. There’s a woman—Dumah Domunha. I only know her in passing. By repute, she’s a bit of a reactionary. That’s why she adopted the old style indigenous costume. I don’t know why she’d have been on an expedition like that. But she’s in Naomi’s division.”

“Who’s Naomi?” Dean asks.

“The woman who signed your order.”

“What division is she in?” Sam asks.

Jo hesitates visibly before she answers. “She’s head of Rehabilitation. But she’s also on the council,” she adds, like it mitigates her other role, “and she served a term in Parliament. But if Dumah Domunha was in Riven space, then you must’ve done something there—”

“Jo. As far as I could tell in the brief interview I had with her and her companions, the only crime I was being accused of is that of association. Which as far as I know has never been a crime in _Riven_ space. First with our father. And then with Cas, when he left them to come with us.”

“ _Left_ them? That must be it. Even if he was rehabilitated, he would’ve been on some kind of parole. Which he then violated and you abetted. Why did he go with you, anyway?”

Dean looks away from both Sam and Jo, glad the dim light hides his flush. “Did it ever occur to you the League’s justice might not have seemed so merciful to someone like him? They had him in solitary confinement. In sensory deprivation.”

“Surely not—” She looks appalled.

“Surely, yes. And to Cas—”

“But Dean,” Jo says, angry now, “if it’s true he’s—well, it’s never spoken about out loud, but certainly I heard Mom mention it once—he’s one of the rare, rare fluke half-breeds—half Je’jiri.” She stops, looking stricken. “But perhaps you didn’t know.”

“I knew,” he replies, grim.

“Well, then, it would’ve been not just cruel but inhumane to subject him to sensory deprivation. Not that it isn’t in any case, but with his peculiar melding of characteristics…” She shakes her head. “Who could’ve ordered such a thing?” Subsiding into silence, she mulls over this question until a new thought comes to her, altering her very posture. “Dean! Since you’ve now reviewed the obligations attendant on human-Je’jiri relations, you must understand the complications inherent in dealing with someone of Angel’s background. If we do find him—”

“ _When_.” Jo eyes the brothers at their perfectly timed harmony.

“—when we do find him, Dean you might want to reconsider keeping him on board this ship.”

Dean sighs. “It’s too late. Like Baby, he’s already bonded.”

“Already bonded! In Riven space, where no one had any inkling what they were dealing with?”

He nods.

“With whom—” she stops, reading his posture and what she can make out of his expression. She jumps to her feet. “Why didn’t you _tell me_? This changes everything! Of course, there can be no question about separating him from you once he’s found.”

“Then help me get Turner off this ship.”

“I can’t.”

“Let me rephrase the question.” Sam speaks. “If we take steps to remove him and his companions without violence, will you attempt to stop us?”

Frowning, Jo paces to the far wall and back again before she answers. “It’s my duty as a member of the Bureau—as a citizen of the League—to abide by the law.”

“Yes,” Dean interrupts, “but will you actively try to hinder us? I won’t have 'em on this ship.”

“You wouldn’t go with him on to Concord and trust myself and your crew to search for—” She looks between them. “No, I suppose not.”

“It’s not a matter of trust, although we certainly have no reason to trust Turner.” Dean speaks. “But I have to be there when we find Cas.”

“I still don’t understand what happened to him. If he’s mated to you, he would never have left. They don’t do that.”

Now it’s Dean’s silence dampening the exchange. Sam and Dean look at each other and the air itself seems expectant and hush. “Sit down,” Sam says softly, at last.

“Let me tell you.” Dean pulls the chair from beside the bed around so he’s facing Jo.

When he finishes his abbreviated recital, Jo regards him not, to his surprise, with horror, but with compassion. “In other words, he thinks you’re dead and has suffered a mental breakdown as a result.”

Dean doesn’t reply.

Finally, she stands. “I trust,” she says slowly, “you understand for the rest of the trip to Doncaster I’ll be completely taken up with the casualties and the medical team. Doubtless I won’t see you at all until we reach there.”

“We understand,” Sam replies.

“Very well. Can you let me out?”

Dean palms the comm-console and asks Jody to give him the all clear. Once given, he punches in his code and the door opens allowing Jo to leave. Sam catches a glimpse of Jody and six Ridanis, all armed and stationed at strategic locations around the outer room. It’s as dimly lit as the inner suite, fading the Ridani’s colorful tattoos to indiscriminate shades of gray. Then the door slides shut again, leaving them alone.

Dean lays down flat on the bed, cradling his head in his cupped hands, his ankles crossed and stares at the ceiling. Sam drops back until he’s half lying on the bed beside Dean. The ceiling’s almost lost in gloom. He broods over the minute textures shading its contours, almost like a faint echo of a topographical map. The dimness of the room shadows his thoughts. How long he lies, brooding, Dean doesn’t know. Baby sings softly at the foot of the bed:

  
_“Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it's not for days_  
_The people I meet always go their separate ways_  
_Sometimes you tell the day_  
_By the bottle that you drink_  
_And times when you're all alone all you do is think”_

They go through.

> _He sees the musical notations, weaving in and out of itself, now reversing itself, now symmetrical._

And come out.

Baby’s still singing, but it’s music they don’t recognize. Dean continues to stare at the ceiling, but although the lighting hasn’t changed the ceiling’s textures now seem to have become a puzzle reflecting Baby’s music.

“Baby,” he asks. “What’s inside a window?”

She incorporates her answer into her music with extraordinary felicity, so there’s no lapse in its flow. _An infinite stream._

“But how do you get there?”

_You will find it by seeking._

“You’ll find it by seeking,” he echoes, the rhythm of his words slip unconsciously into the same cadence as Baby and he whistles it several times, careful to blend it with the robot’s music. He gives up when he starts elaborating impossibly complex variations on the theme. But while he continues, Sam stands up and in the space between the bed and the wall—vast enough by the usual standards of cramped merchantmen in Riven space—and does kata.

Starting with the first one they ever learned, going through it again and again, Dean moves to his side and mirrors his movements. Without a word between them Dean takes the lead, meditating on each variation the slightest re-angling of his fingers makes in the form as an entirety.

They shift to ‘Peaceful Mind’ until Dean’s exhausted it as well—except there’s an infinity of variations within each move, each gesture, which can never be exhausted.

After a while, they need to conserve energy by going more slowly again, but this adds a new element, an echoing whole note counterpoint to the quicker and strong pace of full speed. When they start to get tired, fatigue adds still another level of contrast. Dean steps up the pace again, moving on to a higher kata and a yet higher one. He has long since lost track of the time. Only aware of his own body and Sam’s moving in perfect harmony.

They go through

> _The fortress is bound on four sides, each side only as strong as your own strength, but always as weak as your own weakness.  
>  He holds to the image.  
>  He twists his left hand._

And they come out.

The few centimeters Dean shifted his left hand is virtually insignificant by objective standards, but for Sam standing unchanged beside him, left hand in the original position. They simply stare at Dean’s hand, astonished. He’s damp with sweat. A salty bead coalesces on his lips, he becomes aware he’s thirsty. But Baby’s singing again, so they share a single long look and continue.

‘Flying Fortress.’ ‘Nightingale.’ ‘Full Moon.’ ‘Four Feathers.’

Hours pass. Thirst burns the back of Dean’s throat. Fatigue pulls against each muscle, each strike, each block, each slow elaboration transforms into a quick thrust. Baby’s ceaseless accompaniment seems so integral to what they’re doing, balancing each sequence. Without thinking it consciously Dean knows he couldn’t be so deeply in focus if weren’t for her.

‘Resting Flamingo.’ Balance with perfect stability on one leg. Poised as on the axis of the universe.

They go through.

> _Something about the walls has changed. They hold a texture not just in space but in time. He can see a pattern, a long passage of melody out of the past, across to the present, into the future._
> 
> _Experimentally, holding the vision of the walls, he lowers his right leg. It’s possible to stand, although the floor has no material substance as he knows it._
> 
> _To his side Sam still holds ‘Resting Flamingo’ and Dean can see exactly where Sam needs to shift his weight to perfect the pose._
> 
> _Which is when he realizes there’s someone else in the room._
> 
> _First, briefly, he knows it’s Cas, but his presence is an echo, a faint trace—like a scrap of an earlier melody bound into a new theme. Dean turns and sees the woman._
> 
> _She seems somehow familiar to Dean. Long straight black hair with a reddish-toned complexion and high, square cheekbones—proud, courageous and cynical. The woman turns her head, a movement both impossibly slow and incredibly fast, without being measurable as either, and sees Dean._
> 
> _Blue eyes. A recollection of Master Smith’s eyes, with the same unusual and unusually vital shade of iris—Smith, Singer: his names tumble and weave back in among themselves, like Baby’s counterpoint, until they form a seamless whole—the recollection jolting Dean. Just as the woman steps forward and seems to speak—_

They come out.

Dean collapses on his knees at the foot of the bed, his breath ragged. His hands dry, he sits on his heels trembling. Sitting there shaking, exhausted and exhilarated, terrified all at once. Sam’s also on his knees, holding him and murmuring words he can’t hear. Baby abandons her music and drifts over to nudge against Dean, singing softly

  
_“I took a walk around the world to_  
_Ease my troubled mind_  
_I left my body lying somewhere_  
_In the sands of time_  
_I watched the world float to the dark_  
_Side of the moon_  
_I feel there is nothing I can do”_

Sam helps him climb up on the bed where he forces Dean to stay awake long enough to drink glass after glass after glass of water, before finally allowing Dean to curl in a ball and fall asleep.

  


.oOo.

  


The chime of the comm wakes him.

“Captain Winchester,” Turner speaks, his voice a little fuzzy over the comm. “Three windows to Doncaster. Please don’t be stubborn. Fred and Augustus have things well in hand in comm-tac, don’t bother trying to storm in there. Your bridge crew’s remaining polite, but still, numbers aren’t everything. Just surrender into my custody and we won’t have any trouble.” The comm clicks over, crackling expectantly.

“Persistent bastard,” he mutters to Sam as he walks to the cubicle to wash up and grab more water. He changes into a fresh shirt, and walks back to the space between the bed and the door, whistles a few instructions to Baby and with Sam on his right starts kata again.

Now he can focus his mind quickly and sharply on his center, can bring himself back with the accompaniment of Baby to the clean detachment of his previous meditation. Hunger and a low edge of thirst work for him as well.

‘Flying Fortress.’ ‘Striking Tiger.’ ‘Four Feathers.’ ‘Pillar of the Sun.’

They go through.

> _Time unfolds along an infinite stream, layering back in on itself. His left hand twists; he lowers his right leg—but he hasn’t moved at all. What he’s done before is still present. The black haired woman turns to speak, but Dean loses track of her as he catches, not a glimpse, but the presence of Cas in the room with him. He feels for a moment Cas registers him, takes him in, but any other communication vanishes as swiftly as the echoing shadow of his previous movements._
> 
> _He takes one step forward. Leaves Sam behind. The door recedes, like space too has become infinite and he can never reach it, only seeing its unfolding textures._
> 
> Baby, _he calls._
> 
> _And that’s the strangest thing of all. The music she sings, a continuous interweaving of voices, is seemingly the only thing possessing stability, so perfectly does it reflect the stream itself._
> 
> We follow you, _Baby replies._
> 
> _Out of the infinity of textures of the door, he chooses the one which seems most solid to him, concentrates on it, without losing the shadings of the rest. Walks to it and, pressing his hand to the panel, finds it still opens. It’s the clearest gesture he has seen, as it has few reflections or echoing voices from other windows._
> 
> _In the outer room Jody and the Ridani guards have an almost gossamer quality, like they scarcely exist. The black-haired woman stares up at Dean from the couch. She seems unaware of any presence other than his own._
> 
> _Dean weaves his way through the crowd, careful not to touch them, afraid of what they might feel or what dream his touch may give them. They fade out and gain solidity even as he passes. Their stillness seems ominous to him, not even for their sake, but for his own, because the texture of their being, seeming so light and transitory, makes him begin to fear returning to their state._
> 
> _Each step he takes, through the room, out into the corridor and along it to the bridge, trails repercussions in time behind him, like his presence here inside a window is now imprinted forever, another countermelody weaving in to the whole, necessary, unique and yet utterly bound into the others._
> 
> _Dean enters the bridge._
> 
> _Someone else sits in the captain’s chair. More than one occupant sits at each console, but their substance alters as he looks upon them. The wispy figures of his own crew and the textural, multifaceted forms of unfamiliar faces. The captain turns._
> 
> _It’s the black-haired woman and without question she is the captain. She starts to speak, but Dean’s already discerned the shade of Turner, seated with a strange man—coexistent yet separate—at the comm-console._
> 
> Baby, _he says,_ when we come out, stun him.
> 
> _In triple canon, in six part harmony, she replies and drifts across the vast tiny space of the bridge to hover at Turner’s back, never ceasing from her music._
> 
> _And Dean waits._
> 
> _But the stream stretches on. The countersubject doesn’t end. The black-haired woman stands, walks to each station in turn. The walls hold the textures of infinite layers. The longer Dean stares, the deeper his comprehension of their layers grows until he catches himself lost in contemplation of their limitless varieties, like they represent in another form the endless variety of kata, each one done again and again, always the same and yet never the same._
> 
> _There is no end to it. No way to escape. He can no longer conceive the wall as a single flat entity, without any dimension but that of gross matter. The black-haired woman returns to the captain’s chair and speaks to her crew—and Dean knows finally who they are:_
> 
> _The_ Royal Sovereign’s _previous crew, caught somehow like him inside a window. Caught forever. For no time at all. As he is. Trapped and unable to get out._
> 
> Baby, _he screams._ Stop singing.
> 
> _Baby stops in the middle of her harmony._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wanted Dead or Alive** by _Bon Jovi_.  
>  **Kryptonite** by _3 Doors Down_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is afoot.
> 
> * * *

And they come out.

There’s a flash of light. Turner slumps in his chair. The gun looped at his shoulder clatters to the floor.

“Dean!”

“Captain!”

The exclamations come all at once. He slumps down against the back of the captain’s chair, unable to sustain his own weight. Someone takes hold of him and pulls him up.

“Captain!” The voice sounds flat, one-dimensional. “How the Hells did you get here?”

“I’m never doing that again,” he says. “Never.” He tries to balance on his feet, but lets the man continue to hold him up. “Get Turner to my cabin.” Each word is an effort. “Fleet Brother to comp on bridge. Lock yourselves in here. No women. Now.” And laughs a little, wondering if ‘now’ means anything.

“Charlie, call Mick up to replace you. Then get Dean back to his cabin. Mule, call the Je’jiri quarters. I’ll carry Turner. Move it. Sam you’re here, you take Dean.”

Somehow Dean’s transferred to Sam’s arms and he half walks, is half carried by his brother back towards his cabin. A dark-haired woman stands in the doorway. After a moment Dean recognizes her as Jody.

“Dean!” Jody exclaims, giving a quick look back into the suite before stepping forward. “Sam, what in Hells—”

“Don’t ask me,” he says brusquely. Victor follows carrying Turner.

“Inner room,” Dean gasps, pulling himself that way as well. “Put him in—” He stops trying to find the form and content of words. “Put him in the inner room, with me. Search him. Tie him up. Jody.” Looking up, he meets Jody’s eyes and finds he can actually register her expression. “Keep guards set up in here.” But the outpouring of words confuses him and he lets Sam help him into the inner room and sits on the bed. Watches as Victor dumps Turner on the floor and Jody ties him up as securely as only a former Immortal can. Baby floats in and hovers protectively beside him.

“Victor,” Dean says as Jody finishes, finding he can recall his name now. “Back to the bridge. Lock yourselves in. Get Indra to start unraveling what Augustus did—send Ingrid down to iron deck comp—to Main Computer—to start from that end. Baby, you start at my terminal. Now move. I don’t know if the Ardakians expect some signal from Turner. They’re too close to us as it is.”

“Will you be all right?” Jody asks

At the same time as Victor speaks, “But Captain, you need medical attention.”

“I have Sam and Charlie with me,” Dean tells him, aware arguing is wasting time. “Go.”

They leave. For a long time he sits. Eventually he gathers up enough courage to look at his hands, they seem normal and boringly solid, like hands always are and are meant to be.

Finally convinced of this fact, Dean looks up and into Sam’s eyes wondering how he can explain to his brother that he is terrified to go through the next window? Not because the engines might blow—or precisely that, if it means stranding them inside the window, like the _Sovereign’s_ original crew.

Baby’s plugged into the terminal and she sings softly to herself as she investigates Augustus’ sabotage.

“Baby,” he speaks sharply. “Stop singing.”

With a brief flat cadence, she stops.

Charlie sits cross-legged in front of the door, relaxed but alert, carefully examining a thin comm-slate rather than looking at Sam and Dean.

“What’s that?” Dean asks. The room stays so reassuringly monotone in texture he feels he can afford to relax as well.

Charlie looks up. “Ship’s manifest of the Skye casualties. Handed to Second Officer Victor by min Roberts. I took it from there. I’m trying to figure out how the bounty hunter,” she nods towards Turner’s still form, “how Turner falsified the alien’s record to get him onboard. That’s how it all started.”

“Yes. The Ardakians.” Dean stands carefully, testing his balance but keeping one hand on Sam’s shoulder. The floor seems stable enough and his legs strong enough. He lets go of Sam, it isn’t so hard to stand. “I’d better talk to them before they get worried. Carry on with what you’re doing. It might be worthwhile to know.” He takes a tentative step, a second, Sam next to him ready catch him if he stumbles. With new confidence Dean walks over to the comm-panel beside the door. Touching it, he codes into comm-tac.

“Hey, boss,” answers a low voice he recognizes as Fred’s more by vocabulary than by any ability on his part to distinguish Fred’s voice from Augustus’. “Aug’s got the changeover keyed in but he says he can’t—”

“Frederick,” a second voice cuts in. “Have you ascertained that you are indeed speaking with Rufus?”

“Uh, boss,” Fred asks. “Is that you?”

“No,” Dean replies. “It’s Captain Winchester, Fred. I’ve got your boss. I suggest you and Augustus change the codes and prepare to disembark quietly at Doncaster, I’ll deliver min Turner to you there.”

“You realize,” Augustus speaks, “the vector drive will explode without my override?”

“Yes. Do you realize if the engines go, you go with us?”

There’s a short silence.

“Aug,” Fred mutters. “I told you and the boss, you don’t set explosives if you can’t get outta the blast zone.”

“Even if I correct the engines,” Augustus speaks, ignoring this sally, “I have also reconfigured components in the operating system which will make it dangerous for you to operate this ship without my cooperation.”

“That may be so and while in the interests of goodwill and fair play it’d be polite of you to restore normal operations, I have my experts working on it in any case.”

“They won’t find anything.” Fred brags on Augustus’ behalf.

“That may be, but it won’t stop them working. And I don’t suggest you try a direct assault. Even if you do succeed, the attempt will be bloody and violent and a large number of people will get hurt or killed.”

“How do we know you got the boss, anyway?” Fred demands. “You could be bluffing.”

“I could,” Dean says, but the question is answered for him by a groan and a muffled expletive from the corner.

“My fucking head,” Turner speaks, his voice raspy. “What’d I get hit with?”

“How’d you get the jump on him?” Fred asks, sounding amazed.

Dean cuts the connection.

“Can I get a drink?” Turner asks. Sam and Dean watch him carefully test his bonds. His face looks sallow against the dull gold sheen of the wall against which he lies. As they watch, he pulls himself up to a sitting position and tilts his head back to rest against the wall. The dark stubble on his jaw and chin set off his pallor even more.

“Sam, get him some water.”

“Water!” Turner looks aghast. “Don’t you have anything stronger?”

“We do, but we won’t be sharing it with you.”

Sam returns from the washing cubicle bearing a glass of water. Turner favors it with a look of deep suspicion, but he lets Sam hold it to his lips and he drains it, making a face like it tastes of some unpalatable substance. “Yeah,” he says when he’s finished. “How _did_ you get the jump on me?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Dean tells him. Charlie stops, looking up at Dean like she’s interested in the answer as well.

“You’d be surprised what I’d believe,” Turner says, sounding tired. “Could I have some more, water?”

Dean nods to Sam. “One more glass. You look like you need it.”

“Thank you. Your concern touches me deeply. How did you get the jump on me?”

“Trade secret,” Sam replies, coming back out with a full glass of water. “How’d Fred get on the casualty list?” Turner grins.

“Charlie, head down to Medical and have Flower prescribe something mild to put him to sleep for the duration.” Dean codes the door open and Charlie leaves.

Turner waits until after Sam’s helped him empty the glass before speaking again. “Common trade knowledge. I found someone who could be bribed. Don’t bother to try to trace them.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll bet Jo’s going to be shocked.” Sam tells Dean as he moves back away from their captive.

“Jo—?” Unexpectedly, Turner sighs. “Singer had a girl named Jo,” he adds, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “Nice kid, a little wild.” Then, abruptly, he tests his bonds again and frowns over at Baby. “Don’t see many of those around these days.”

“How did you know Singer?” Dean asks.

“None of your damn business. How do you know him? And how come you’re wearing that medallion?”

“More trade secrets.” Dean leans against the wall beside the comm-panel and surveys him dispiritedly. “So we’re at a stalemate.”

“For now.” Turner grins again. “You’re not bad, for being so young, but you’ll find out experience counts.”

“How did you know Singer?” Sam repeats.

His grin vanishes. “We’ll leave it at a stalemate for now, I’m patient.”

He lapses into silence punctuated only by his efforts to disengage his bonds. Dean keeps his arms relaxed at his sides, confident of Jody’s ability to tie a lasting bond, but like Sam he remains carefully watchful and whistles a brief instruction to Baby to monitor Turner as well. When Flower arrives, Turner doesn’t bother to struggle as she gives him an injection. It takes effect moments later and Sam, holding onto his shoulders, lowers him to the floor and arranges him in what Dean guesses is a comfortable position.

Flower checks Dean’s eyes and feels for his pulse before nodding towards Sam and leaving, heading back to Medical.

They wait. Eventually they get a progress report from Baby and the two Je’jiri. They’ve identified two anomalies and are now investigating them. Sometime later Baby reports one of the anomalies has vanished and soon afterward, Augustus comes over comm and curtly tells them the vector engines are now safe.

Victor immediately starts a countdown to the next window. Sam talks Dean into sleeping while he stands guard.

Dean has strange, elongated dreams. Waking abruptly, he sits bolt upright, startling Sam.

“When’s the window?” he asks, gasping. He puts a hand to his forehead and discovers it’s damp.

“Are you alright?” Sam’s obvious concern doesn’t move him to relax his attentive guard on the still unconscious Turner. “We went through the window some time past. Two hours or more. It’s a good fourteen hours before the next. I can check with Victor on the bridge if you want?”

“No. I’m going to head to the bridge, you stay here until I send Rainbow back to watch him. Then you go get some sleep.”

Sam’s estimate proves close enough. Dean plans a careful strategy with Jody and Victor to make sure the two Ardakians get off ship without incident. Baby and the Je’jiri isolate the remaining anomaly but can’t discover Augustus’ point of entry. Fred and Augustus make no further attempts to communicate.

As the last window to Doncaster approaches, Dean tries to sleep, hoping to avoid it as he did the one before. But Turner begins to mutter and toss and he sends for Rainbow to get a second injection. The warning chime sings across comm. Dean’s muscles tense, Rainbow hasn’t yet returned.

They go through.

> _Cas’ essence leaves a trail across time, across the textures still and eternally impressed by his passage. If Dean can only move fast enough on his path, he can catch him—_

And come out.

He’s shaking. A moment later, a knock sounds from the door and he gets up to let Rainbow in.

“Captain!” Slipping inside, Rainbow stares at him. “Mayhap you should go to Medical.”

“No. Help me with this injection.”

“I kin get it, min. You sit down.”

“Captain.” Victor, over comm. “Nine hours to preliminary orbit, twelve to docking.”

“Let Charlie take over, Victor.” Dean turns grateful for this distraction. “You and Jody start cordoning off all routes from comm-tac to docking. Send Sam, Paisley and the Mule to my cabin. Winchester out.” He turns back and watches as Rainbow efficiently applies a second dose to the restless Turner.

“Rainbow, when the others get here, you’re relieved until we dock.”

“Yes, min. And ya one?”

“We’ll carry him off, once the two Ardakians have disembarked.”

Once they come in to Doncaster it proves easy enough to shepherd Fred and Augustus off the ship. Dean refuses to move Turner until the casualties are all off and once Jo’s relieved of the responsibility she surprisingly insists on reminding Augustus—who, with his cousin, refuses to venture farther than fifty yards from the link bubble—it’s a crime in League space to tamper with the operating system of a vessel no matter what the circumstances, unless, Jo adds with grim officiousness, it’s to save lives.

Jody reports the conversation with great glee back to Sam and Dean. With it comes a thin slate containing Augustus’ calculations and as Baby puts them through the system they correspond with one of the two solutions the Je’jiri suggested. It takes less than an hour to clean out Augustus’ tampering. Meanwhile, Victor reports, the two Ardakians wait patiently in the broad expanse of the docking corridor for the return of their employer.

“Send out the Je’jiri,” Dean orders, now on the bridge. “When we’ve got a trail to follow and we’re ready to leave, I’ll hand him over. Not until then.”

He doesn’t go below to watch the Dai marshaling her forces, preferring to let the Mule act as his liaison. The presence of Indra at comp on the bridge is unsettling enough. Dean keeps catching his blue hair in the corner of his eye and turns, thinking it must be Cas. Indra’s frame is just bulky enough for an instant one could mistake them—

“Benny.” His voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Patch me a line through to Administration. I want to see what Jo is up to.”

“Yes, Captain.” His voice is flatly neutral and he busies himself with his controls. Examining his back, Dean thinks he seems out of sorts, less and less the cheerful, easygoing Benny he’d once known on Kansas, he wonders if it’s his fault for bringing Benny so far, to change him so much. “I have the hospital’s Administration,” Benny says, breaking into Dean’s thoughts. “They say min Roberts’ in a meeting with the local Concord representative and a visiting Intelligence official. They expect her to be out in two hours. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No.” It’s impossible not to speculate about the content of her meeting. Dean takes advantage of the lull to personally inspect the comm-tac room on gold deck with Baby to make sure Fred and Augustus haven’t left any surprises. By the time he finishes, the Dai has returned.

Flanked by Jody and one of the women, the Dai is waiting for Dean in his cabin. She inclines her head respectfully as Dean enters.

“We traced your mate to his last point of contact on this station. With this information taken to the registry, we ascertained he must have gotten on the freighter _Pickle_ destined for Somerset Link. Is this acceptable?”

This swift resolution to Castiel’s disappearance from Doncaster Hospital takes Dean a moment to assimilate. If they can actually catch him—but he forces himself not to fan the flames of hope too high. “How did you pinpoint that freighter?” he asks instead.

The two Je’jiri women look at each other like the question is inexplicable to them. Jody speaks up instead.

“The whole pack of them roamed around the hospital and pretty soon one of the men—” She hesitates.

“It was Hawk Brother; Nathaniel, whose scent proved keenest on this trail,” interposes the Dai.

“Nathaniel, Hawk Brother—came up with something. I just followed after and eventually they ended up in front of a berth. They knew to the day, hour and the _minute_ , when Cas was there. So we just went to Portmaster’s—they call it Registry here—and found out what ship’d been berthed there at the right time. It was pretty damn fast.” Jody looks like she wants to add something else but finds it prudent, in the presence of the two Je’jiri, to refrain.

“Excellent,” Dean says. “Get everyone back on board. We’ll leave as soon as we’re ready.” He catches sight of Jody looking at the Je’jiri women and turns his attention back to Anna.

“Captain, while we on the station we were approached by kin family. They have a boy, Samandriel.” The Dai speaks.

“Okay,” Dean answers, waiting for the rest.

“I request he be allowed onboard to see if he and Hael are je’abai.”

“How long will it take?” Dean asks, aware time is still moving forward and Cas’ getting further away.

“Like is drawn to like. He will know instantly if Hael would be a suitable mate.”

“Doesn’t Hael get a say in this?” Jody interrupts.

The Dai and the other Je’jiri turn and look at Jody. “No.” The Dai tells her, turning back to Dean she continues. “Once our young reach adolescent they are driven by instinct to find a bond, any bond.”

“Where is this Saman—” Dean pauses.

“Samandriel. He and his family are at the link bubble. Because of the risk Hael poses, they must come to our quarters. They will be off the ship within thirty minutes. I made them aware of your time constraints.”

“Samandriel,” Dean works the name around his mouth, “won’t he need time to pack? To say goodbye?” However much the Je’jiri resemble Cas, there’s always an essence of foreignness about them, of utter difference from himself and all things human.

“That has already been taken care of Captain.”

“Okay.” Dean nods his agreement. They regard him in turn without any expression he can read. He coughs and makes an abortive gesture towards himself. “Thank you,” he tells them.

“We have not found him yet,” replies the Dai, easily understanding the topic change, “only established his trail. Now, if we may go to prepare our quarters?”

“Of course. Jody, you’re in charge of the prisoner. Once they’re done, hand him over. Then seal the link bubble and we’ll be breaking dock.”

Jody salutes and all three women leave.

Dean checks his inner room, but Sam and the two Ridanis—Rainbow and Flame—assigned there have nothing to report. Turner’s still unconscious. Dean returns to the bridge.

“Message from Jo,” Benny reports as he enters. “she’ll be back on board in twenty minutes and she wants to talk with you and Sam.” He swivels in his chair to face Dean. “Why’s she coming with us, anyway?”

“Because I can’t stop her, short of physical force and I think she can help us.”

“You _think_ —?”

“I hope.”

Benny turns back to his console. “Hope is a terrible thing,” he mutters, but the comment, however uncomfortable, doesn’t seem to warrant a reply and only Charlie, sitting at scan, seems to have heard it. She glances at Dean in surprise, but goes back to her work. Mick and Diamond, at weapons and life support, remain engrossed in their work. Pinto and the Mule are still off duty.

From iron deck, Victor reports all crew are back on board then, shortly after, the visiting Je’jiri leaving. Dean wonders if the boy Samandriel left with them. A few minutes later, Jo reports in.

Dean meets Jody in the captain’s suite and watches as she leads a large contingent of armed crew, escorting Rainbow and Flame who carry Turner out on a stretcher. He and Sam return to the bridge and sit and wait.

“Captain.” It’s Victor. “Turner is safely on Doncaster station and we have sealed the link bubble.”

Dean stands up. “Good. Commence detaching. Then meet me on the bridge. We’re setting a course for Somerset Link.”

The hunt is on.

  


.oOo.

  


The bartender has the same youthfully mature face most residents of League space have, his however, is scarred with the look of one too many forays into mind-altering substances. In the half gloom of the bar, he peers at Dean with the disinterest of a man who’s grown apathetic through mental inactivity.

“Nah,” he says, handing the thin slate displaying Cas’ photo back to Dean, “I never saw this man, nor any human with blue hair, not since it were fashionable twenty years back. But I did see—it was strange enough—” He pauses and looks up and down the dark counter. The murmur of conversation from the customers in the cramped space accompanies his searching, though most are hidden by huge growths of a dull, thick leafed plant spreading from a line of pots set along one wall. Jody, stationed a careful four paces to one side of Dean, shifts position. At the door, the Mule nods briefly. In a far corner, Rainbow has lost herself in the shadow of leaves. The bartender glances for perhaps the fifth time at Anna and Inias, the two Je’jiri flanking Sam and Dean before he turns to call into the dark room behind the bar.

“Monica! How long ago did tha’ rogue come in?”

There’s a moment of silence. Finally, a woman, unseen in the gloom, replies. “Five days ago.”

“That’ll be it.” He turns back to Dean. “We don’t see them often, Je’jiri, tha’ is.” His eyes shift involuntarily to Anna and Inias again, before he forces them back to Dean. “Sometimes they come through in packs, which ain’t so bad, begging your pardon, honorables.” This time, addressing them, he doesn’t look at the two Je’jiri. “But no one trusts a rogue.”

“A rogue?” Sam glances at the Dai for clarification.

“A Je’jiri adult, man or woman, who travels without benefit of family, is considered with sufficient reason to be of aberrant status,” replies the Dai softly.

“It were a rogue, all right,” repeats the bartender, either not hearing or ignoring this exchange.

“You’re _sure_ it wasn’t this man?” Dean asks.

He shakes his head. “He weren’t human. Sure and maybe there’s some resemblance of face and such. I got a good look, since they’re rare to see and dangerous and such. Begging pardon again, honorables.”

“No offense taken,” replies the Dai smoothly.

For some reason the clear, crisp sound of her voice startles him. “It were no offense because he was Je’jiri,” he says quickly, “but because he was solo and acting strangely.”

“What did he do?”

The bartender hesitates.

Dean waits, sure this is the clue they’re lacking. Cas’ trail has led them from Somerset Link to Ardross Depot then Westwood Center and now here, on Harrogate, a small station orbiting a dead planet circling a white dwarf. To this bar. Only now, somehow, it seems it’s not a human they’re following, but a rogue Je’jiri. It seems impossible but all too probable to Dean the Je’jiri have lost Cas’ scent, or mixed it up with another’s.

“It gave me the jeebies,” he says at last. “He come in here and begun laying hands on people like he was one of them reform preachers of the Church of Three Faiths. And then he’d lean down and speak to them in a low voice like it were a bit of tha’ Mother’s word he was imparting. What made it so weird was he did it to both men and women alike. And you know how they are—Je’jiri, begging your pardon—about touching you if you isn’t the same sex. It was weird.”

“What did he say to them?” Sam asks

He grins for a second, looking embarrassed. “Nothing people wanted to repeat.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Sam pushes.

“Well,” he delays. “He went the rounds of the entire place and no one trying to stop him because it was eerie enough to be unsettling and anyway no one wants to rile a rogue.”

“You need to understand,” Dean says, “this could be important. Did he say anything to you?”

He grabs two glasses from the rack under the bar and delays further by pulling two drafts of a dark foamy liquid.

A small woman appears in the door leading into the dark room. “You might as well tell them, Charlie.”

“Monica—” he starts.

“It’s no secret you drink too much,” she continues mercilessly.

“He told me my liver’s going bad,” Charlie says sullenly, setting the full glasses on the bar and sliding them down to a couple who’ve managed to signal for them without words.

“And he told me I’m pregnant,” Monica adds, “which was a surprise to me since I hadn’t gone long enough to miss my cycle yet. Not that it isn’t welcome news, since we’d gone off the implants six months ago and were hoping, but I was warned it could take a year or more. Anyway I went in yesterday and sure enough I am, the doctor was amazed I’d caught it so early.”

Dean looks at Sam and the Dai. “It’s Cas. I’m sure of it.”

“In any event, an unlikely Je’jiri, solo or not,” replies the Dai evenly.

“Then what happened?” Sam asks.

Charlie shrugs. “He left. With old Jonah Greely, who runs a scratch ferry between here and Agnew Depot. He’s rattled enough to take any paying cargo.”

“He’s a dream crystal addict,” Monica adds helpfully. “He’ll take any credit he can get. Even a rogue.”

Dean sighs and rubs his hands over the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he says, although this new development seems yet another and greater, discouragement. “We’ll check Registry.”

“Ferry’s name’s the _Molly McNamara_ ,” Monica offers. She looks directly at the Je’jiri, not at all disturbed by their presence. “This a family matter?”

“Yes,” Dean says, feeling hopelessly tired. “A family matter. I appreciate your help.”

“Best luck,” Monica says. Charlie mumbles something unintelligible. Dean nods to the Dai and the two Je’jiri precede him and Sam out of the bar, the customers quieting and staring as they pass.

Jody falls into step beside them. “Maybe you ought to sleep, Dean,” Sam says. “You’re on the same cycle as most of the crew. You shouldn’t have stayed up. Jody and I could’ve traced this without you.”

“Void knows you’ve enough practice,” Dean replies, bitter. “It’s taken us a month to get this far and I think he’s getting farther ahead of us. How can we possibly catch him? What happens to him if we don’t?”

“You’re tired,” Jody lays a hand on Dean’s back, between his shoulder blades, a light pressure as they walk along the corridors of Harrogate. “Even the scruffy little stations here look rich,” she continues, like this comment might distract Dean from his despondency. “At least compared to the Riven. This place is crawling with plants. Can you imagine what it costs to maintain them?”

“Maybe Jo’s right and it’d be a crime for the League’s government not to open relations with the Riven, bring them in to the League.” Sam takes over. “Give them the benefit of all this.” He waves a hand to encompass the spacious lines of the station, half obscured by vines and trestles of flowering plants.

Dean doesn’t respond. His expression remains detached, he might not even have heard.

“Come on,” Jody says, half cajoling, half scolding. “Go to bed. Sam and I’ll go with the Dai to trace down this Greely person.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Dean says reluctantly.

“Of course I’m right. Rainbow. Mule.” The two split back from their positions in front of the Je’jiri. “Escort Dean back to the ship.”

Dean allows himself to be escorted. He’s tired and discouraged. He had such hopes they would catch up with Cas at the next station, then the next, then the next. Now he wonders if it’s possible for them to catch him at all. Or if they’ll catch him too late. Both at this station and the last, the people he’d interviewed—people familiar with Je’jiri—had stuck by their conviction the solo man passing through was pure and simply Je’jiri. _Alien_. What is he turning into? Can he ever get _Cas_ back again? Hope is a terrible thing, Benny said and right now Dean agrees with him.

At the link bubble a message waits. Jo wants to see him. He quickly ascertains she’s in the mess. Leaving the Mule and Rainbow, he goes there.

She sits alone in the room. In deference to the night shift, the lights have been dimmed, but she looks up as Dean enters and lifts a hand in greeting.

“Something to drink?” she asks as he approaches.

“No. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? You look tired.” She cradles a mug between her hands, lifting it occasionally to sip, but when he sits down with only a shake of his head she shrugs. “We’re being resupplied. We should be ready to go in four hours. Any luck with the hounds?”

“We think he’s gone on to Agnew Depot. They’re out confirming it now.”

“I didn’t think it would take this long. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Maybe I will have a drink.” Taking his cue, she gets up and fetches a mug of the hot, bitter drink called _coffee_ , together it and _beer_ seem endemic to League space. “Jo, can I ask you a question?”

“Hrmm,” she murmured her consent.

“Why Roberts and not Harvelle?”

“My mom’s reputation far exceeds—” Jo takes a deep breath. “If I want to make a name for myself, I can’t use her name. Singer of course comes with its own issues. So Roberts.”

Dean nods his understanding.

“Well, then,” she says, looking at a loss for what to say next. “I was going to mention—but perhaps this isn’t the right time.”

He looks up at her, too weary to postpone what looks to be, by her expression, bad news. “Go ahead.”

“While I was in arranging the resupply with Harrogate Coordinator, the Concord representative came in expressly to see me. It seems a rogue Je’jiri caused several public disturbances, but vanished before they finally decide to call out the constables on him. Mostly the incidents are more troubling than dangerous, but one woman claimed he tried to carry off her child. And two men who came upon him unexpectedly in one of the warehouse corridors said they narrowly averted an attack by freezing and speaking very softly and slowly. As one would,” she adds thoughtfully, “to a startled and cornered animal. That’s how one of the men described it.”

Dean stands up. “I think I’m going to get some rest, if there’s nothing further.”

“No, I—Dean—I’m sorry.”

He turns away so she can’t see his face. “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” he says brusquely and leaves, unwilling to face her sympathy. He takes a slightly longer route to the elevator, passing by crew cabins along corridors which at this time will likely be deserted. The possibility of speaking normally to anyone seems too great a trial. So, following the trend of this thought to its logical conclusion, it’s with no surprise he crosses the path of an altercation very much in progress.

A door shoots open and Paisley backs out through it with so much force it’s like she’s been pushed.

“I told you not to bother me,” Benny speaks from inside, his voice edged not so much in anger as with desperation. “I don’t know what makes you think I’d want something everyone else on this ship’s already sampled.”

“It were offered in kindness,” Paisley replies with stubborn dignity, but there are tears on her face. “There be no reason for you to insult me. And it bain’t true, no matter what you think about me, that I sleep with everyone. Even if it were, there be nothing shameful about being kind.”

“Especially if they pay you.”

Paisley gasps, choking on a sob and puts a hand to her cheek like he’d slapped her. Then she turns and flees down the corridor.

“Paisley!” Dean calls, but Paisley disappears around a corner, heedless of the call.

“Dean?” Benny sounds surprised, he appears in the doorway. His face has a flushed look, like he’s embarrassed, or furious, or fighting back tears.

“I’m ashamed of you. How could you say that to her, after everything she’s been through?”

“What about everything I’ve been through?” he retorts. “What do people care for that? Why does everybody coddle her so much? And anyway, everyone knows tattoos are all whores.”

“Everyone knows you’re a hell forsaken bigot, Benny.” His own depression fuels his anger. “I wasn’t aware you ever advocated the Byssinist line of strict monogamy, given my grandfather didn’t and he never missed Temple. Just because the Ridanis have a different way of expressing sexual relations—”

“Fucking everything that walks.”

“Spite is one of the ugliest emotions I know. What happened to you, Benny? You never used to be like this.”

His expression twists in pain. “I used to have a home and people who cared for me.”

“Maybe that’s why Paisley came to you.”

“I don’t want her pity.”

“If you abuse her like that, you’re not going to get anyone else’s either.”

“I don’t want anyone’s pity,” Benny says, his voice flat. “Just leave me alone.” He steps back into his cabin and the door, blank and unrevealing, hisses shut behind him, cutting him off from Dean.

Dean hesitates, wondering if he should try to talk to Benny again. As angry as Benny’s treatment of Paisley made him, Dean can still sympathize with his pain. Yet would Dean’s sympathy seem any better than pity to Benny?

“Shit,” he sighs and walks on, preferring, like Benny, to be alone with his unhappiness. Mercifully, he meets no one else and the quiet emptiness of his cabin is a relief to him. He walks directly into the inner room to lie down and stops. His instincts tell him immediately something’s different. An impression left on the bed, a subtle air of habitation.

The door to the washing cubicle opens and he steps out. Quite naked.

“Pinto!”

He holds a towel in one hand but he doesn’t immediately move to wrap it around himself, whether out of vanity, or surprise on his part, or simple invitation—Dean can’t help but stare. He’s certainly attractive enough. The tattoos lend his body a beauty made more seductive by the way each pattern draws the eye in and then on to the next. The patterns of his face and arms continue around the planes of his slender body, accenting it with color and line Every part of him is covered, that’s quite apparent.

Dean flushes. “What are you doing here?” he asks and is appalled when his voice squeaks.

Pinto wraps a towel neatly about his waist so it drapes artfully to his knees. “You seem—lonely and a little sad.” He walks over to sit on the bed. It makes a pleasant picture, to see him sitting there, so at home. “When I saved your life on Arcadia, I got my kinnas back from when you saved mine. So it wouldn’t be presumptuous to approach you. It was never the right time, before. But I think,” and his look is unfortunately acute, “it is, now.”

What Paisley meant by ‘kindness’ becomes painfully clear to Dean. Not the act of sex, but the free offering of love and companionship, of intimate contact when the soul most craves it. Perhaps it’s Paisley’s understanding of his pain that Benny hates, not her tattoos.

Pinto simply sits, patient in the way all Ridanis have learned to be in the Riven and waits for Dean’s response.

It’s too tempting. He doesn’t move from the door. “You have to go,” he says, low, a little hoarse. Dean looks away from him.

He feels Pinto stiffen. “Can’t lower yourself to touch a cursed tattoo, is it?” he taunts, his voice tight. Dean can’t reply. There’s a sudden silence. Then he says, softer. “Dean, look at me. Please.”

Dean keeps his eyes resolutely fixed away from Pinto. “ _I can’t._ ”

“You want to.” He sounds pleased with this discovery. “I thought you did. Then why not?”

“Pinto. It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to. I can’t. Cas tried to murder Benny.”

“He’s not here and he didn’t murder Benny in the end, did he? Showed a Void full of restraint, if you ask me.”

Now Dean does look at him. “Pinto. I’m going to tell you something only Sam and I know.” Pinto sits, attentive and listening. “I had two lovers before I met Cas. One is Benny. The other is dead. Castiel murdered him.”

The quiet brutality of Dean’s statement seems to hit him the most. “Murdered him? Like Cole Trenton?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see the body.”

“He wasn’t arrested?”

“They never caught him. I couldn’t bring myself to turn him in.” He forces himself to look at Pinto as he speaks. “There wasn’t anything else I could’ve done. You know what he is.”

“I guess he’s half-alien,” Pinto says. He looks neither judgmental or revolted, merely thoughtful, which is, in its own way, worse. “So the Je’jiri really do mate for life, exclusively. I feel sorry for them.” But unspoken, as Pinto stands up, is his pity for Dean as well.

“Even if I could,” he says, because he feels Pinto deserves the truth. “I wouldn’t want to, I think—I think I realize now what Cas means when he talks about love.”

Pinto smiles, stopping directly in front of him. “They haven’t found him yet, have they?” he asks.

“No.”

“I hope we do. Cas always treated a person for themselves, not what they looked like. Trenton deserved what he got.”

“I’m not so sure,” Dean murmurs, “but I’m hardly in a position to argue, since it’s my life he saved.”

“I wonder if the Je’jiri have kinnas,” he muses.

He leans forward and raising a hand pulls Dean’s face down to his own, laying a gentle kiss on his forehead. Dean sighs a for a moment lets himself rest his head on Pinto’s shoulder. A kindness, nothing more.

“Pinto,” he takes a step back and snaps, “would you _leave_?”

He laughs, understanding Dean perfectly. “ _You_ have to let me out.”

“Wait a minute. How did you get _in_?”

“Baby let me in.”

“ _Baby!_ ” He keys in the code automatically and the door slides open. “ _Baby_ let you in—” He passes through the doorway and walks on to the far door. “Pinto! You can’t go out in the halls half naked!”

He pauses at the far door as it slips aside to reveal gold deck’s corridor. “Why not?” He grins. “It’s nothing most of the people on this ship haven’t already seen.” The outer door sighs shut behind this provocative remark before Dean can reply, but he can’t help but chuckle a little as he turns back to face the bed. It looks empty and lonely.

The comm chimes. “Captain.” Charlie’s voice. “Off ship communication.”

“Put it through.” Dean feels abruptly tired again. “This is Winchester.”

“Dean, it’s Sam. We got it. The ferry left four days ago for Agnew Depot.”

“Thanks, Sam. Come back aboard.” He keys the bridge. “Charlie. Set a course for Agnew Depot. We’ll leave as soon as all crew are back on board and the resupply’s finished. Check with min Roberts for the schedule.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Wake me up in six hours. Winchester out.” He sits down on the bed and feels it again, the worst of emotions. Hope. Maybe on Agnew Depot… “Maybe you should sleep,” he mutters to himself and goes to wash up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pickle_ : **HMS Pickle**. During the _Battle of Trafalgar_ , _Pickle_ and the other small vessels kept well back from the fighting, as a single broadside from a ship of the line would have sunk her instantly. _Pickle_ herself was stationed to the north-west of the weather line, where Nelson was leading _HMS Victory_ into battle.  
>  _Pickle_ was the first ship to bring the news of Nelson's victory at Trafalgar to Great Britain.
> 
> _Molly McNamara_ : Molly and Jonah Greely are the two ghosts from _Supernatural_ season 2 episode 16: Roadkill. I have a dark sense of humour.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All roads lead to Rome.
> 
> * * *

Agnew Depot’s coordinator is adamant. “No doubt whatsoever. A rogue Je’jiri. Male. There was some trouble. A fight. A man thought he was trying to pick up his woman friend, putting a hand on her, or something. The testimony’s still being sorted out. In any case, the rogue was arrested—had to be restrained.” The coordinator pauses, sharing a look of distaste with his assistant. “Next thing I knew the Concord representative showed up and took him off my hands.”

“Under what authority?” Jo asks.

The coordinator skips his attention across Dean and centers it on Jo. “You’re with the bureau. You know how it is. Once they decide to cite ‘security reasons,’ you’re free to get records if you have time to wade through the bureaucracy. I did find out it was an order from Rehabilitation, if it helps. In fairness to min Dobbs—our rep—I don’t think he knew any more than he told me, but the identifiers came back flagged as ‘violent offender,’ so he took him into custody and sent him off on a secure yacht.”

“Sent him where?” Dean asks. Sam lays a hand on his arm and squeezes, a reminder the man across from them is only doing his job.

“Concord,” says the coordinator and Jo at the same time.

After a brief pause, Jo continues. “Rehabilitation’s based at Concord. It’s the only place they’d send him.”

“I don’t suppose you could enlighten me.” The coordinator looks from Dean to Jo. “I interviewed the rogue briefly, because of the incident and while I thought him disturbed I didn’t feel he was dangerous. I studied xeno in college,” he adds, like this is explanation enough, “although I never went on to get an advanced degree.”

Jo shrugs, glancing at Dean silently saying it’s his choice what to divulge. Because the coordinator’s been both efficient and helpful, Dean feels he deserves something.

“He’s a half breed.”

“Ah,” the coordinator replies, trying not to look gratified. “That explains it. It must be an interesting story, Captain, how you got a half-breed on as a member of your crew.”

Dean can’t help but smile at the careful politeness with which the coordinator frames his curiosity. “It is. But unfortunately, if they’re three and a half days ahead of us, I don’t have time to relate it to you now.”

“Ah, well.” The coordinator stands, undaunted by this evasion and offers both Dean and Jo his hand to shake. “I had to try. Best luck to you.”

“How long will it take us to get to Concord?” Sam asks Jo as they return to the ship. Their usual escort—Jody, Rainbow, Anna and Inias—follow them.

Jo directs her answer at Dean. “We’ll lose time to a yacht. Especially since you don’t have enough bridge crew to cover all shifts. If we take the straight route we can get there in about three weeks. Let’s see. If they left three and a half days ago and are on the normal circuitous route, we can expect to get in a little under a week after they do. Once we get there we still have the charges against the two of you to deal with. Concord’s system is such that even with my presence it could take weeks to find out where they’ve put him and _then_ we still have to get permission to see him.”

“I’m glad you’re so optimistic,” Sam snorts.

“Realistic. Bureaucracy is one thing that never changes. Not to mention the final hearing on the disposition of the _Royal Sovereign_ itself. I can’t predict what kind of ruling will be handed down, given its history.”

“Jo.” The history of the _Royal Sovereign_ makes Dean think, not of his own hopes to keep the ship for himself and his crew, but of the fate of the _Sovereign’s_ original crew. “What if Intelligence incarcerates us? I have to be there, in person, when we find Cas.”

Jo considers. “You have to face those charges, Dean.”

“Charges which essentially boil down to fraternizing with a couple of saboteurs, who we didn’t know were saboteurs at the time. I didn’t realize that was a crime and if it is, it makes you a criminal as well. More so, since you know.”

“Let me rephrase,” she replies coolly. “If you intend to stay in League space you have no choice but to face the charges. I assure you, we assume innocence here, not guilt.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“When you’re sarcastic you sound like Ash. In any case, where would you go? Back to the Riven?”

Back to the Riven. An unlikely prospect, he thinks, given the circumstances under which they left. Supposing any of them even want to return. “We could turn privateer,” he says, thoughtful. “Like Ellen. The Pale isn’t under League jurisdiction. Or anywhere else outside that.”

Jo looks shocked. “You’d _like_ to be a privateer?”

“Not particularly. But if we’re not given choice—” He looks at Sam and they let the sentence hang, letting their silence speak.

“Sam, Dean.” She looks like she’s about to stop right there in the middle of the corridor. Jody, reading her body language, even falters a step. Then, glancing around at the foot traffic through which they make no appreciable ripple, she decides against drawing any more attention to themselves than the two Je’jiri already bring them. “All right.” She frowns. “You have no idea how it galls me to bend regulations in this way—”

Sam grins. “I think we can guess.”

“Now _you_ sound like Ash. But in this case I will. But only if you both promise once we’ve taken the first steps to resolve the Angel problem, you’ll voluntarily present yourselves to Intelligence for a hearing.”

“If Cas is at Concord, how do we find him without revealing our presence and get arrested?”

“You’re the captain,” Jo looks at Dean. “You ought to be used to delegating by now.”

He puffs out his cheeks and then releases the breath through his closed teeth. “I think it was easier when I was the leader of a small strike force. None of this waiting around on the bridge. It’s much more wearing.”

“Oh, yes,” Jo casts him a grateful look. “Thank you for reminding me. We also need to bring this matter of the Riven and its civil war to the attention of the council. They’ll have to decide what kind of embassy to send.”

Dean can’t help sharing a smile with Sam, thinking of Alexander Jehane’s reaction to an arrival of a League embassy of any sort. “Whatever kind they send,” he says, “I’m sure they’ll find the experience interesting.” Thinking of Jehane makes him think of Alex. Was she even alive? Glancing at Jody, he wonders if the mercenary’s thoughts have made the same leap as his own, but he can read nothing but trained alertness on Jody’s face as the woman keeps an eye out for the possible, if unlikely, reappearance of Rufus Turner and his boys. “Very well,” Dean finishes. “We accept. Let me see Cas first and then we’ll appear for a hearing.”

“Trust me,” Jo asks them. “I don’t know what experience you’ve had—clearly not a good one—but League justice is fair and as impartial as any human justice can be. You won’t be betrayed.”

“I hope not,” mutters Dean to Sam, but he says it too softly for Jo to hear.

  


.oOo.

  


Concord is not one large station, rather it’s a number of large stations all sewn together in complementary orbits. Victor stares in awe at what is, to him, the most marvelous feat of engineering he’s ever seen. He can’t imagine how any group of humans could have weaved such a complex web of interlinking stations, dry docks, arrays and more stations—all in a bewildering variety of shapes and sizes—and at the same time make it so utterly beautiful against the stark background of space and distant sun. Yet, he considers, it’s always a mistake to underestimate human ingenuity.

“Owen,” he says for the fourth time. “Not only are you not supposed to be on this shuttle, but you absolutely will not be allowed off of it once we arrive.”

“Look!” Owen points away from the rather crude representation of Concord’s pattern he’s attempting to model on his comm-screen to a disk suspended off to one side of the vast network of human life. “Is that a planet?”

“I don’t know,” Victor replies, feeling surly and trying to conceal it. “It must be. Owen, will you promise me you won’t try to sneak off this shuttle the same way you tried to sneak on?”

“Sure,” Owen replies cheerfully.

Victor thinks over the entire statement. “Will you promise me you won’t leave the shuttle at all once we reach Concord?”

Now Owen hesitates. He makes the kind of face only a very clever child foiled of his utmost ambition can make. He shrugs his shoulders and drums his toes into the back of the seat in front of him.

Victor sighs. “Owen.”

“I promise.” Owen subsides sulkily into the comforts of his three dimensional modeling of Concord’s intricate maze, pausing only once to dart a glance of searing disgust at Victor. Victor sighs again.

“We have you clear, _Sovereign One_.” The voice of Concord traffic control pierces the small cabin’s hush easily. “You’ll find a berth available at Amity five plus seven. Use the eleven forty nexus for approach.”

“Great,” Pinto mutters. “That makes perfect sense to me.”

“Received and accepted,” Jo speaks into the comm. She leans over to bring up a display on Pinto’s console. Concord appears, diagramed in colors and patterns for flight approach. “Here. The flight paths work as—”

“I see,” Pinto says, taking in the angles and lines quickly. “That’s very efficient.” He sounds surprised.

“It has to be,” Jo says. “You have no idea how much traffic moves in and out of here.”

“Let me see. There’s the opening and then you go round through—oh—and this grid intersects there and that’s very good.”

Jo nods, returning her attention to comm. “ _Royal Sovereign_ , this is _Sovereign One_. We’ll berth in thirty-five minutes.”

“Acknowledged. We have no further on-board relays for you, except Owen is to promise _not_ to leave the shuttle until you return to the ship.”

“Owen?” Jo turns in her seat. “How did Owen get on board?”

“You don’t want to know,” Victor tells her.

Jo turns back to the console. “You can be sure Owen will not leave the shuttle. _Sovereign One_ , out.” She unstraps herself from the seat and uses the handholds on the other seats to get back to Victor’s row. “Owen,” she starts sternly. He regards her with astonishment. “You may think stowing away is a fun game, but I assure you it’s nothing of the kind. We’re on a very delicate mission and your presence makes it far more difficult for us to succeed. Were you to get lost on Concord—which I assure you, you would—we can just as well forget finding Angel at all. So you will not leave this shuttle until we return to the _Royal Sovereign_. Do you understand?”

Owen’s astonishment turns by degrees into humiliation. “Yes,” he replies in a small voice. He hangs his head. His chin trembles.

“Good,” Jo says without the least sign of remorse for upsetting the boy. She returns to the comm chair next to Pinto.

Victor follows her forward. “Don’t you think you were a little harsh on him?”

“No. Sometimes scaring a child that age is the only way to make them understand consequences before those same consequences overwhelm them and everyone else.”

“I wasn’t aware you had so much experience with child rearing,” Victor replies, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm from his voice.

“I don’t. But my brother and I unwittingly contributed to several near disasters by just this kind of behavior. Almost got our mom killed, once. We were only nine years old. I’ve never seen my dad as furious as he was that day and with good reason.”

Victor doesn’t know what to say to this so he returns to his seat. When they berth at Concord, Owen turns to him and tells him in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I never meant… I didn’t think… We have to get min Angelis back.”

Victor pats him on the shoulder with awkward sympathy, but it’s relief he feels leaving Owen in Pinto’s care, following Jo and Paisley off the shuttle. Victor isn’t quite sure why Dean’s sent Paisley along on this expedition, except the young woman’s been remarkably subdued lately. Perhaps Dean thinks a glimpse of Concord might cheer her up.

Indeed, as Jo leads them through the bewildering maze of halls, corridors and concourses making up Concord—making up this one small section of Concord, he reminds himself—Paisley’s face brightens and she stares about them with infectious awe at the huge murals decorating each concourse.

“It be not just ya big,” she informs Jo innocently, “but ya pretty as well. All ya pictures and so bright and so—so many.”

“Concord’s murals are famous,” Jo concedes. “It was the Temu Assembly who suggested commissioning artists to depict human history and culture on Concord’s walls. A fitting tribute and a reminder.”

“Ah,” Paisley murmurs wisely. “I reckon you all must be ya rich, as live here.”

“Rich?” Jo chuckles. “It’s a rich life, certainly.”

“No. I mean ya credit rich. Like ya Senators on Central. They could have all or everything they wanted.”

“Couldn’t everyone?” she shakes her head. “No, I suppose you lived under a primitive economy there.”

“We have free trade,” Victor protests, disliking Jo’s tone of voice. “Central’s abuse of trade regulations was one of the leading causes the revolution. But perhaps you’ve moved beyond free trade here.”

“Certainly not. Where would people find their incentives? But we no longer have the vast inequities in the distribution of wealth which used to characterize the system.”

“Do you mean anyone could live here?” Paisley asks, disbelieving. “Even ya Ridanis?” As she speaks, they pass a pair of people, one of whom is, like the administrator Scallop from Dunedin Center, a half-tattooed Ridani.

“Ridanis?” Jo looks puzzled, clearly not understanding the thrust of her question. “Of course anyone can live here, given the population constraints on a closed system.”

“Sure,” Paisley breathes. “And glory.” Her eyes shine with the wonder of it.

“Here we are.” Jo directs them past a mural of men and women harvesting a field of grain and then off into a corridor on the left leading into a warren of offices. She stops by a wall panel next to a door and keys in. A moment later the door opens silently to reveal a small room with an elaborately contoured desk and a tall, dark skinned woman sitting behind it.

Seeing her visitors, she smiles broadly. “Jo! Come in. Come in.” She stands up and comes forward to give her a hug, then shakes hands with Victor and Paisley. Under her loose dress, her belly swells out in the universal proportions of a pregnant woman. “Please, sit down. I’m Rebecca.” As she turns back to the desk, Jo shows them how to lever out and open chairs from the wall. They unfold into constructions of delicacy and beauty and remarkable comfort.

“You’re well?” Jo asks once they’re sitting.

“Quite well. Now.” Rebecca sits down and tilts a slender screen so Jo can view it as well. “I’ve done some investigation and there’s no record on any of the general channels of a secure yacht via Agnew Depot or any record of this person arriving at Concord—not on the regular manifests or even on the reports of traffic into Rehabilitation. I’m digging down farther now. We’ll see if he turns up in classified.”

“You think he won’t?” Jo asks.

Rebecca smiles, her lips mocking. “He ought to if he hasn’t shown up here before. But it could be they’re going to cover his arrival up entirely.”

“How do they do that?” Jo asks.

“They leave no trail at all. They never enter him.”

“But that’s—”

“Not very sociable, I know.”

“Sociable!” Jo stands up, like the action is the only outlet for her emotions.

Victor braces himself for the explosion he thinks is coming and is surprised, glancing at Rebecca, to see she’s still smiling. Her eyes met his and she exchanges a knowing glance with him.

“That kind of secrecy goes against every principle on which we’ve built our society. It subverts democracy itself. How can they possibly justify—”

“Jo.” The gentleness with which Rebecca interrupts her brings Jo’s outburst to an abrupt halt. “Most people can find a way to justify even the most unreasonable actions. I’m just warning you it might not be as easy as we’d hoped to track down this Castiel de Angelis. Especially if he’s who I suspect he is—one of the old saboteur network—but if anyone can find him…” She trails off.

“You can. I know.” Jo sits down, not quite meekly. “It’s why I came to you, Rebecca.”

“Flatterer, and here I thought it was for sentimental reasons.” When Jo doesn’t reply to this sally, she returns to the keyboard built into her desk. “In case no reference to min Angelis shows up, which I suspect will be the case, I’m also running a concurrent cross check of Rehabilitation, Psych and Xenology for unusual activity or unexpected transfers of personnel.”

“Can anyone access all of this information?” Victor asks.

Rebecca glances up, curious. “It’s public.” She looks over at Jo.

“They really aren’t from League space,” she replies.

“Ah.” It’s comment enough.

“Even classified material?” Victor persists.

Rebecca continues to type as she speaks. “Define classified. It’s not like it’s a private organization with qualifying standards and memberships fees. This is government. There are, of course, privacy restrictions to protect the individual. I can’t nose into your health records, for instance, or find out how you voted. But when a government starts keeping secrets from the people—you and I—who are in fact the ultimate authority—” she shrugs. “Certainly there’s classified information. But if one can prove necessity to know and fair intent of use, this kind of information remains accessible.”

“Is that what you’ve done here?”

“No.” She grins. “I’m circumventing the system. I snuck in the back door. After all, I helped design the current software.”

“But min Roberts,” exclaims Paisley. “That be wrong.”

Jo flushes. “We’re in a hurry,” she says, but it’s a thin excuse. Paisley stares at her. Victor chooses not to press. They sit for a time in silence, until Rebecca makes a brief exclamation.

“I think I’ve got it.” Like it’s a good luck charm, she rubs her rounded belly. “This may not mean anything, but I have a transfer of Dr. Eleanor Visyak from her post in Xenopsychology to Rehabilitation. Seven days ago.”

Jo leans forward. “Not _the_ Dr. Visyak? The one who worked with Shurley on the psycholingual xenographic correspondence—”

“I don’t know, but there can’t be many Dr. Visyaks' fitting these specifications and it’s an unusual transfer.”

“Follow it up. I wonder…” Jo trails off.

“What be ya psycholingual xenographic correspondence?” Paisley asks.

Jo chuckles. “I haven’t a clue. Breakthrough research into language and alien psychology. The kind of work which wins Nobel Prizes and Visyak was young, especially to be working with someone of Shurley’s stature.”

“Who be—?”

“Paisley,” Victor says softly. “We have library files on League history on the _Sovereign_. You ought to avail yourself of those.”

“Yes, min,” she replies meekly.

“This is strange,” Rebecca comments. “She accepted a transfer to Concord prison, secure level six.” Jo whistles. “Temporary assignment, no fixed time limit, her former post pending for her return.”

“Secure level six.” Jo shakes her head. “Now, Rebecca, tell me how we can get a message to her without alerting anyone in Rehabilitation.”

Rebecca smiles, not without sympathy. “Scarred forever by your childhood, my dear. Don’t bridle up at me, Jo. You’re the one who suggested it. Well, an old-fashioned, hand-carried note.”

“And how do you suggest I get to secure level six without attracting attention?”

“You could agree to be my baby’s crèche aunt and I might find an untraceable transitory message coded private to Dr. Visyak and ask her to meet you here.”

“Rebecca,” she answers with some exasperation. “I’ve already agreed to be munchkins crèche aunt.”

“There you are then. I should’ve been a saboteur.”

“Please,” she shudders. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Probably not. How do you suggest I lure the good doctor up here?” This query brings silence from her audience. “It has to be good,” she adds, “to move her.”

“It be only right,” Paisley says fiercely, “that she help min Winchester, seeing as he be lovers with min Angelis.”

“Lovers? I admit, sentiment is a nice touch, but I’m not sure it’ll be a strong enough bait.”

“No,” Jo nods. “That’s exactly the right suggestion.” Paisley smiles brightly at the praise. Jo stands up and walks over to lean on Rebecca’s desk. “If Angel is pretending to be a Je’jiri and Dr. Visyak was called in for that reason—if she even was transferred to Concord prison because of his arrival—”

“It’s the only lead we have so far.”

“Then telling her his mate has arrived—his _human male_ mate.”

“Je’jiri? _Human_ mate? _His? Male_ mate? I don’t even know which I should be questioning first.”

“I’ll fill you in later. Tell the doctor he’s arrived and needs an urgent and private conference with her. Try that.”

“ _Male human mate_ ,” Rebecca mutters, but her fingers are already tapping rapidly over the keyboard. “You’d _better_ fill me in on the rest of the story, my girl, or I’ll make you join my book club again.”

“I’ll tell you,” Jo assures her.

She finishes and tilts back in her chair, stroking her belly again. Her eyes catch on Paisley. “We don’t see many orthodox here. What sect do you adhere to?”

Paisley looks first at Victor, then at Jo, for illumination. “What be orthodox?”

“Your tattoos and locks.”

“Bain’t all ya Ridanis got ya tattoos and ya locks?” Paisley considers her own question and shakes her head. “Sure, but I seen ya Ridanis here that be only half tattooed, or scarce tattooed at all. I reckon ya pattern be sore troubled here.” She hesitates, like she’s having a troubling thought. “Or ya different.”

“Do you mean all the Ridanis where you come from are uniformly orthodox?”

“Sure, if you mean they all have ya tattoos as I do. I never reckoned there be any other pattern but ours.” Her expression grows unexpectedly fierce. “Even if I might have hoped it be ya true, that there be another way for ya Ridanis to live.”

“You mean it’s strict there?” Rebecca’s interest seems genuine enough.

Paisley draws in her breath. “I think min Angelis treated us Ridanis no different than he treated any other soul because he didn’t know no other way.” For a moment her eyes focus on Victor and he looks away, ashamed to admit he’s harbored his own share of prejudices against Ridanis in his life, like most every other citizen of the Riven, unthinking and reflexive. “I think,” and here she turns her forceful look on Jo, “you would be sore surprised and sore angry at the way us Ridanis be treated in ya Riven, unless you got ya special people you set aside here, as we have never seen.”

“Set aside?” Rebecca asks. “How do you mean?” Then she interrupts herself. “I’ve got a reply. Goodness, that was fast.”

Jo hurries around the desk to stare over her shoulder. “Thank the Mother,” she mutters. “Victor,” she adds, “You and Paisley get back to the shuttle and return to the _Royal Sovereign_. Dr. Visyak’s agreed to meet with Dean here in this office in two hours.”

  


.oOo.

  


Dean’s already sitting in Rebecca’s office when Dr. Visyak arrives. He’s ruthlessly banished everyone except Victor and Jody from the office, including Rebecca and a protesting Jo. “I want you as my witnesses,” he tells them, wishing just for a moment its Sam with him, but he’s left his brother safe onboard the _Sovereign_. “I need your support.” Jody, squeezing his hand, says nothing. Victor murmurs something incomprehensible, feeling both embarrassed and pleased.

The door opens silently and a woman enters. She pauses as the door shuts behind her to examine the three occupants of the office with a lively, intelligent gaze. Her hands, clasped in front of her, have a smooth, ageless cast to them.

“You must be Captain Winchester,” she says with a professional’s curt politeness, coming forward to extend a hand toward Dean.

Dean stands, recognizing an authority which, in their current situation, outweighs his own. “Yes. Dr. Visyak?”

“Yes. Your associates?” Still polite, her voice now questions the necessity of their presence.

“My officers: Jody Mills. Victor Henriksen. I think it’s important they hear what we have to say.”

“As you wish.” The doctor shakes their hands. She doesn’t avail herself of Rebecca’s desk but takes a fourth chair and sits down with Dean on one side and Jody on the other, making their group into a tight circle. “Under the circumstances, Captain, I can’t ignore this unusual and rather secretive request for a meeting. Right now, I won’t question your motives for secrecy.”

“If you’ll excuse me, doctor, information leads us to believe your prisoner was brought into Concord under equal secrecy.”

Dr. Visyak smiles coolly. “He’s not my prisoner, as I’m not a jailer. I don’t know his status at Concord prison. I only know he’s suffered some kind of traumatic breakdown and I was called in as a consultant. He’s my patient and it’s as his doctor I’m speaking to you now. I’m not interested in any other consideration but his health. That’s the sole reason I agreed to talk with you.” She pauses, but it’s not to let Dean reply, only to marshal her thoughts. “You claim to be his mate.”

This dispassionate attack takes Dean off guard. He can’t stop himself from a brief, wry chuckle. “I don’t claim it. I am.”

“I hope we’re speaking about the same person.”

“Castiel de Angelis. Also known as Angel. I don’t know if he went by any other names. At one time part of the saboteur network that fought in your war with the Empire.”

“ _My_ war?”

“We’re not from League space, doctor. Until recently, I didn’t even know it existed. But that’s another story. Here’s an image of how he looked when he was my ship’s chief physician.” He hands a thin comm-slate to the doctor.

Dr. Visyak takes it without comment and examines it in silence, her lips pursed in concentration. The porcelain skin of her face is as smooth as her hands, but something in her manner gives away, as it had in Master Smith, her great age and greater wisdom. “Yes, it’s Cas,” she says, handing the slate back to Dean. Dr. Visyak sits back in her chair, hands back in her lap and regards Dean shrewdly. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I want him back.”

The doctor’s composure remains unruffled by this outburst. “Let me ask you a few questions, Captain. How long have you known Cas?”

“Let me see. About three years.”

“How long have you been lovers?”

“As long. Within a week, near abouts.”

“It’s unlikely he would have acted so quickly, or given in to your interest so soon.”

Dean smiles, wry again. “He wasn’t conquered by my vast charm, I’m afraid. He did it to get the protection of the man I was traveling with at the time.”

Victor makes a noise in protest. He almost reaches out a hand, likely to offer comfort but Jody’s snort of laughter stops him.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Remember I was there witnessing that whole week of undisguised sexual tension. If it hadn’t been so obvious when you came back on board your relationship had progressed, I’d have thought you two were already having sex.”

Doctor Visyak looks at Jody for a moment and clearly dismisses her observations. Jody shrugs her shoulders, unmistakably happy with her own knowledge of what had happened aboard the _Painted Lady_.

“He was trying to get away from Concord Intelligence,” Dean adds for the doctor’s benefit.

“Concord Intelligence? I don’t understand. A moment ago you said you weren’t from League space.”

“This wasn’t in League space. Surely you know he was in Concord prison for over twenty years, had just gotten out and was taken with an expedition to—” Dean stops. Something he’s said has finally gotten a reaction from the doctor.

“Twenty years in Concord prison!” Dr. Visyak’s agitation takes the form of unclasping her hands and lifting them to straighten the already immaculate coil of blonde hair pinned at the nape of her neck. “I was never informed of this. It’s _not_ noted in the files I was given last week—” This time, when her lips purse, her disapproval is evident. “I can assure you, I will be speaking to Rehabilitation about this. That is unconscionable. Now.” The matter is dismissed but clearly not forgotten. She fixes her severe stare on Dean once more. “In the time he’s been your lover, have you noticed, any—strange behavior?”

Victor coughs behind his hand. Jody sighs and looks somber.

“He killed one of my former lovers,” Dean states in a flat voice. “And attempted to murder the second. Luckily I’ve only two. I believe I know what precipitated—whatever condition he’s in now. He thinks I’d been killed. In response—” Speaking so calmly, the words take on a surreal aspect for Dean. He can still see the blood. “—he killed—how many?”

“Fifteen,” Victor speaks.

“Fifteen people. It was—ugly. He ripped their throats out, just like a Je’jiri would.”

“Ah.” The doctor’s expression lightens. “Now I begin to understand. First you must understand, Captain, you mistake the agency. Je’jiri do not go berserk. Only humans are berserkers. Mix them and you get a volatile brew, one which, like oil and water, is never soluble. His attachment to you—if you are his mate, as you say—is of necessity bound by his Je’jiri ancestry. But such furious violence is all too human. That’s why he’s retreated into this Je’jiri guise.”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Visyak nods, making a decision. “I think you’ll need to see him for yourself. If you’ll come with me.” she stands. “I can admit only you, Captain. Your associates will have to stay here.”

“Dean—” Jody starts.

“No, Jody. I’ll go. Go back to the shuttle. I’ll meet you there. I do have one more question. Doctor, you call him Cas. Somehow I get the impression that you’ve known him, or of him, before now.”

Dr. Visyak smiles for the first time. It’s a sad smile, touched with irony. “Some fifty years ago, Captain, I was an ordinary social worker in the city of Launceston, on Glenelg Four. I was called in on the case of an adolescent boy of seventeen who’d committed a horrifying series of murders. Father dead, mother unknown, family indifferent. The old story. Until I discovered he’d only been living with his aunt and uncle for six years and they’d concealed—out of shame—the fact he was the rarest of things, a half breed.

“Instantly I changed my entire treatment of him. My original area of interest was in xenopsychology, but I’d never been able to get even an entry level post in either the public or private sphere. Thus, social work, then everything changed. I made a brilliant reputation working with a poor, troubled child. I won a university post and later graciously accepted a position in Xenopsychology Research here at Concord. Yes, I know Cas quite well.” She walks to the door and it opens before her. “Why do you suppose I was called in now?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel, interrupted.
> 
> * * *

They take multiple elevators, one long pneumatic tube ride and finally walk down the only drab corridors Dean has seen in League space to reach secure level six of Concord prison. A second tube ride and four seemingly casual checkpoints punctuate the trip. The security here is unobtrusive but thorough. Dean wonders if unseen security, scans and probes them as well. Dr. Visyak remains unconcerned and leads him through it all with impressive aloofness. Whatever her origins as an ordinary social worker, she’s clearly grown accustomed to the privileges attendant to one who has status as a great mind. It occurs to Dean the security leading to level six is organized solely to keep prisoners in, not—as it would’ve been in Riven space—to keep visitors out as well.

“You’re quiet,” Dr. Visyak comments as they pass through two key doors into a large observation room. A single technician turns from the main console and acknowledges their entrance.

“I’m nervous,” Dean admits, following the doctor forward to a long wall of clear plass overlooking a series of small, sparsely furnished rooms.

The first room is empty, the second contains an unfamiliar Je’jiri man and the third… Dean’s eyes skip back to the second room.

“It can’t be,” he whispers.

“Oh, it is,” Dr. Visyak replies, cool and composed at his side. “Blood, retina, fingerprints all confirm it.”

Dean knows with the immediacy of primeval instinct he’s looking at an alien, not a human. He sits, not in a chair or couch, but on a high counter, legs crossed, back straight. The way the Je’jiri were sitting during Dean’s meeting with the Dai. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his hands hold the thin comm-slate balanced on one knee, all bear the stamp of an alien musculature. The unruly mop of his hair stands out startlingly blue against his pallor. He is as pale as a ghost, too pale to have human skin. He’s no one Dean knows.

Dean stares. Slowly, painstakingly, he constructs bone and muscle to find an echo of his Cas, but it’s a difficult match. There are certain physical resemblances, purely structural. Any likeness ends there. He sits with the perfect stillness of a hunter, studying the screen.

“It’s been difficult to communicate with him,” Dr. Visyak speaks, jarring Dean out of his scrutiny, “because he only speaks and responds in Je’jirin now. I speak a few phrases, not well—it’s a difficult tongue conceptually for us. Of the two specialists who live on Concord, one’s currently on assignment and the other has only been available twice for short periods. He’s not, in any case, very communicative.”

Dean tears his gaze away from Castiel—it’s too painful to look at him. Dr. Visyak’s curt professionalism is easier to deal with. “Have you tried Je’jiri?”

“Yes.” The doctor moves away from the overlook. The technician moves swiftly to let her sit in the chair in front of a long console, allowing her to observe all three rooms and access an impressive bank of screens and keyboards at the same time. “There’s a clan currently in residence here. They agreed to send a brother. He arrived and spoke with Cas for some time, but when he came out he informed me there’s nothing the Je’jiri can do. When Castiel’s mother sent him to his father’s kin, just before puberty, evidently she severed all clan ties, so he doesn’t have any kinship within their kith and kin system. He’s considered by them to be too dangerous—too primitive and violent, if you will—to be allowed into Je’jiri society.”

“ _They_ call _us_ violent? After what I’ve seen them do?” And yet, looking out at him, there’s a surface edge of serenity to him now that’s never existed before, a veneer of calm. Dean doubts it runs very deep. “Perhaps I’m beginning to understand why he’s trying, however unconsciously, to protect himself by becoming Je’jiri.”

“Perhaps you do,” replies the doctor. “However, it’s no protection. I thought I had helped him, when he was a boy, to find a balance, to integrate both halves, but it was a makeshift cure, I fear, and one that’s clearly disintegrated.”

“When I met him, I think he was trying very hard to be human. To not be Je’jiri at all.”

“No better solution. Concord has record of two other cases of half breeds. One committed suicide at age eighteen. The other died recently after eighty years in a catatonic state. Cas has done very well.”

“Very well,” Dean echoes. The statement seems incongruous to him, seeing this person—this creature—inhabiting Cas’ body. “What happened to him as a boy? Why did his mother send him away? Surely it’s a cruel thing to do.”

“Cruel enough. When he spoke about it, it was with great pain. I think he was well loved there, from what he said and how he said it. I can guess—or hope—it was a painful parting for his mother as well. But imagine a human adolescent in Je’jiri society. The clan member who visited us here said it bluntly. It would not be tolerated. Thus he was sent to his human family.”

“To become human,” Dean says bitterly.

“I interviewed them extensively, the aunt, uncle and grandparents. They meant well. But he was a strange child. His father was the black sheep of the family and died under strange circumstances. They had no inkling a child even existed, simply had him dumped in their laps. They should’ve called Social Services of course. But they didn’t.”

He turns back to find refuge in Dr. Visyak’s even expression. “What did he do, at seventeen?”

Dr. Visyak’s smile is sad. “What do you suppose he did? He had sex. No one prepared him for the consequences. The young woman was three years older than him and healthy enough in her self-esteem to have had a couple of previous lovers. They both died. Evidently she was disturbed enough by his behavior—not knowing, I think, he’d committed the murders—she stopped seeing him and started a relationship with a new partner. As we reconstructed it afterward, it was the new partner who figured out the connection. That young man was not a pleasant character. Castiel tracked them down and the young man killed the woman, thinking it would save his life. Of course it didn’t. Originally it was thought Castiel had murdered the woman as well—”

“He would never have!”

“No, so we discovered.” Dr. Visyak examines Dean in the subdued light of the observation room. “I’m beginning to think you’re indeed what you claim to be.”

“So you were called in.”

“Yes. He did try to kill himself twice afterward. I worked with him for several years. Eventually he was deemed stable enough to begin to attempt to live in the world again. I encouraged him to study medicine.”

“ _You_ encouraged him—?”

“It fitted his—particular talents. It gave him a sense of purpose, a mission. I was disappointed when he joined the saboteur’s network. I never thought it a job conducive to mental health. But his parole board approved and it was his choice.”

“He had another lover there,” Dean tells her before lapsing into silence, remembering the story Cas told him—it seems so long ago—at Bedlam Station. How his lover slept with his best friend to see if it was true he would have to kill any man she slept with. “But I think she abused him, abused the relationship. She died, at Betaos.”

“At Betaos? The famous engagement? They used to say the blue-hair physician killed an entire chameleon—excuse me, Kapellan—battalion single handed. One of those exaggerated legends that grow in the retelling.”

“I’m not so sure,” Dean replies, slow. “She died there. He could have done it, if he’d gone berserk. I’ve seen what he can do, under similar circumstances.”

Dr. Visyak taps a message into one of the keyboards and a file comes up on a screen. “I see I have a great deal to fill in. Which reminds me, what more do you know about his term in Concord prison? I’m deeply disturbed to hear of it. It should never have happened, not with his psychological profile.”

“Other than it was about twenty years? He told me once he’d been in something called sensory.”

“Sensory deprivation!” Dr. Visyak lifts her hands to pull at the tight coil of her hair, lowering them again to tap furiously on the keyboard. “That’s the worst possible treatment they could have subjected him to!” She seems to be talking more to herself than to Dean. “It would be _torture_.” She checks the screen, but whatever she wants evidently doesn’t come up. She resumes typing. “I’ll have their heads for this. Absolutely against procedure. Unforgivable.” She subsides into incomprehensible muttering.

Dean drifts back to the plass wall. The Je’jiri man sitting on a high counter in the middle of the room continues his tranquil contemplation of the slate balanced on one knee. He moves a hand, brushes one pallid cheek with the back of the hand. An alien gesture, precise and exotic, like a ritual whose movements make no sense to the audience.

“I have to talk to him,” Dean says. How else will I know if he exists anymore? He leaves the thought unspoken.

“I’m sorry?” Dr. Visyak glances up from the bank before her.

“I have to talk to him.”

“Do you speak any Je’jirin?”

“None.”

The doctor stops typing. “How will you communicate?”

Dean’s silent, staring down at Castiel. There’s one way they can communicate without words. What would it be like to make love to an alien? A foreign creature lacking any trace of familiarity, of humanity? Who can hunt its prey across years and uncounted distance, driven by forces as strong as those moving of the planets, all for the simple pleasure of ripping out the prey’s throat with its bare teeth. If he grins now will he reveal canines? How do they make love, if they make such a thing at all, bonded for life without choice?

“I have to try,” he says, his voice tight with all the thoughts he can’t speak.

At first Dr. Visyak doesn’t reply. Her silence considering. “The room to the left,” she says at last, “is a close observation room, separate from the room he’s now in by plass. He can see you from there. I want you to stand in that room first so we can observe his reaction. After that, I’ll consider letting you into the room with him. I should add, I control access completely to his suite. It’s coded both to my voice and my retina.”

“All right,” Dean’s agreement is short, because if he says more he’ll talk himself out of it. He turns away from the wall and lets Dr. Visyak lead him below. The doctor motions him to enter the observation room alone then disappears upstairs. Dean enters slowly, determined.

Cas notices his movement immediately. He looks up. Sees Dean. His eyes, glowing brightly, met Dean’s and they stare at each other. There’s no sign of recognition whatsoever on his face. His eyes drop away and disinterested he returns to his slate.

Dean feels like he’s been slugged in the abdomen. His breath doesn’t feel right, taut and uneven. He wants to scream.

Dr. Visyak’s voice, disembodied, carries out from the speaker in the panel next to the outer door. “You’d better come back up.”

“No. Let me in with him.” Something in Dean is screaming to be let into the room.

“I can’t do that. Surely you understand, Captain. The risk—”

“He won’t hurt me.” Dean’s palms feel damp and hot. Unconsciously, he’s clenched his hands, he forces them open. “You have to let me in. Don’t you understand? There’s only one way I can reach him.”

Silence from the panel. Some minutes later Dr. Visyak appears personally in the room. Her movement attracts Cas’ notice. He looks up, examines her and with equal disinterest looks down again. Her face, as she searches Dean’s expression, is somber. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. No,” Dean snaps. “I don’t know. The last thing I want to do is touch that—that alien in there, but if Cas is in there, if there’s any hope of getting him out again? I have to try.” He doesn’t tell her there’s something in his chest clawing at him, trying to get to Cas. He’s not sure he can explain it.

Dr. Visyak sighs, heartfelt and, strangely enough, compassionate. “Let me call two more fellows, in case there’s any—problem. In case we have to intervene.”

Dean flushes. “You’re not going to— _watch_?”

“No, my dear. Through the curtained door there are private sleeping quarters. But the initial encounter—we must be cautious.”

“Okay,” Dean concedes.

“I’ll be right back.”

The assistants take less time to arrange than Dean fears. It gives him less time for second thoughts. Quickly enough, Dr. Visyak returns and places her hand on the panel next to the inner door, stands quite still, staring at nothing then turns back to Dean. Unexpectedly, she reaches out and touches Dean’s hand with her own, a smooth, cool meeting. She says nothing, just steps back. The door opens with a hiss of escaping air. Dean steps through. It shuts behind him, sealing him in.

Cas looks up. So close, with nothing between them, the inaccessible alienness of his entire being strikes Dean with double force. This is not Castiel. He’s alone in a room with an unknown, unpredictable Je’jiri.

Then he tilts his head to side and scents Dean. His eyes are half closed as he concentrates on smell. He uncrosses his legs. Dean’s instincts want him to take a step back, away, at the same time the feeling in his chest is urging him forward. The male slides off the counter with precise grace and stands there, examining Dean less with his eyes than with—

Dean shivers but holds his ground. The sense of being thoroughly inspected without sight unnerves him. He feels the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck. Realizes _he_ will know of it as well.

He moves. Dean doesn’t. In a slow, broad arc he circles Dean. He circles again, closer this time and a third, bearing in, so close now he could with one step reach out and touch Dean.

“Cas.”

He stops, hearing Dean’s voice and tilts his head to one side like he’s trying to make sense of the word. Then he speaks, just a few words, but the language means nothing to Dean.

“Cas,” he repeats. “Can you understand me at all? Do you know who I am?”

He circles him again, keeping a static distance. Stopping in front of Dean. There’s something in his eyes—not, Dean thinks, any recognition of him as _Dean_ , but a recognition of _what_ Dean is to him. He looks up at the blank wall above concealing the one way plass. Clearly, he’s aware Dr. Visyak and her observers exist on some unseen plane.

He turns deliberately and walks with a predator’s easy grace across to the curtained door. Pushing the fabric aside so it gathers in his hand, he steps into the gap and pauses, half in one room, half in the other. Behind him, Dean can make out a pallet arranged neatly on the floor of a small room. He waits, expectant but not impatient. The unearthly pallor of his skin gives him a weird and inhuman attractiveness, set off by the unexpected brilliance of his hair. He’s startlingly and beautifully exotic and Dean understands truly for the first time how a human, despite full knowledge of the consequences, might succumb to the lure of such forbidden fruit.

Dean’s footsteps, on the carpeted floor, make scarcely any sound at all, however heavy and deliberate they feel to Dean. As he approaches him, he moves aside to let Dean pass into the private room. Dean feels the heat, the presence of him, so near to him as he slips through the arch, but he doesn’t touch Dean. He restrains himself from glancing back toward the one way plass wall.

The room Dean enters is small. A single pallet and a shut door leading, he expects, to a washing cubicle. Dean feels him approach from behind, feels him half a hairbreadth away. His breath stirs Dean’s hair. He shivers again, but this time not out of fear. He turns. Like calls to like.

He lifts his head, brushing Dean’s cheek with one side of his face, like a scenting ritual. His skin feels cool and dry. Pausing, he waits again and Dean realizes in this ritual it’s now his turn to respond.

Dean hesitates. The heightened pull of his body toward him, as close they stand, seems absurdly strong, like at any moment Dean’s muscles will start to tremble. However alien he now is, the intensity of Dean’s attraction to Cas is both bitter and sweet. Dean lifts one hand and combs it through his hair, savoring the soft, thick texture. His breath catches. Leaning forward Dean lightly brushes their lips together.

After that, even if Dean wants to talk, he doesn’t have either the time or words.

When Cas speaks finally, it is a word Dean knows, long after events have progressed to their conclusion, lying on the pallet, when he holds Dean as closely as possible to hold someone and still be two separate people. His eyes shut, he says something Dean doesn’t understand at first, until Cas shifts so his lips brush Dean’s ear and he speaks again, a low murmur, “Dean.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Dean's ducks are lining up.
> 
> * * *

Dean wakes disoriented. Starts to move, but someone has him pinned. An alien naked and next to Dean. A Je’jiri. Dean catches himself in a series of gasps as he remembers. Even in the way Cas sleeps, he doesn’t look human. He stirs, disturbed by Dean’s movement, stretches while still in the unmeasurable zone between sleeping and waking and opens his eyes to look directly at Dean.

Je’jiri eyes, feral but calm. The glow to his blue eyes seems especially pronounced, brought out somehow by the blue tips of his hair lying in disarray about his face. Then he smiles.

If Dean felt disoriented before, he feels it doubly now. It’s a human smile. It’s _Cas’_ smile, wide and gummy, set off against his Je’jiri looks.

“I had the worst nightmare,” he says, so smoothly Dean doesn’t understand him at first, because he expected not to. “Jehanists were about to kill you. They _shot_ you—” his voice shakes, “Mother’s curse on them and I went crazy—” Cas moves suddenly to press his face against the curve of Dean’s neck and shoulder. “Thank the Mother, it was just a dream.”

Cas holds him a moment longer. Dean can’t find a voice to speak with. Lifting his head back from Dean, Cas raises a hand to stroke his hair. Catching sight of the hand, of his skin—and stops dead, staring. His eyes widen. _Human_ surprise. On his Je’jiri face, the human expression looks bizarre. His gaze travels down his arm, down his body, to where his legs tangle in with Dean’s.

The silence stretches out, tight, ready to snap. He disentangles himself from Dean and gets up, stiffly, walking into the washing cubicle. Dean sits up. Pulls on his underwear and follows Cas.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, hands on either side of it, palms flat on the wall, staring at himself. Confusion compounds his shock. His eyes flick, a brief movement, seeing Dean’s reflection appear.

“What happened to me?” he asks, hoarse.

“Cas,” he speaks tentatively, not knowing what to say.

He turns abruptly away from the mirror and stalks out of the wash cubicle back to the pallet, settling himself with instinctive ease into a Je’jiri cross-legged pose on the padding. That fast, Dean thinks, he reverts. Without thinking he walks and moves like he’s still one of them. Corrects himself, because Cas _is_ one of them.

Eyes shut, he concentrates on something far removed from both Dean and this room, he’s listening for a sound that’s eluding him. He scents again, the full side to side tilt so natural to Je’jiri it defines them. When he opens his eyes, he addresses Dean in Je’jirin with no awareness Dean might not understand him.

“I can’t understand you, Cas,” he says quietly. “You have to speak Standard.”

He looks blankly at him. Dean waits, frozen, convinced he’s lost Cas again and then something sifts through his consciousness and his expression changes.

“Dean,” he says. The name a touch stone. He hesitates, trying it again. “Dean.” His accent changes and the syllable doesn’t make sense on his lips.

“Yes,” Dean replies. The pain of watching him struggle is so acute it feels physical. “Cas, you’ve been ill.”

“You’ve. Been. Ill,” he echoes, enunciating each word, mimicking Dean’s pronunciation. He shakes his head, trying to free something. “Today is three Terce. Today should be three Terce. Today _is_ Seven Sextant.” He hesitates again, then asks Dean a question in Je’jirin.

Dean moves to sit down beside him. “Cas. I can’t understand that language. You have to speak to me in Standard.” Reaching out, he puts his arms around him. Cas relaxes in Dean’s embrace, stills, head resting between the curve of his shoulder and jaw.

Jerks away abruptly. “Pinto!” he cries. He scrambles to stand so quickly he stumbles, catching himself and heads for the curtained arch, tense and oblivious. Dean pushes up and tackles him. He keeps trying to go forward. Dean gets a leg under him and flips him onto his back, pinning him. Sitting down on his abdomen, pressing his arms down on either side of him.

“Cas! I didn’t sleep with him! I didn’t sleep with him. It was one kiss. On the forehead—” He breaks off, realizing he’s yelling, like Cas is deaf. He stares up at Dean and he can’t tell if Cas comprehends his words or not. It suddenly makes him furious, he’s searched for so long, diverting so many resources and he’s not simply getting Cas back without any additional cost. It doesn’t seem fair. “What kind of person do you think I am?” he demands. “Do you think I would kill him, by sleeping with him?”

Cas is no longer tense under him. He looks, if anything, bewildered. It’s not a reassuring expression. “I’ve been ill,” he says quietly, like the concept is new to him. “I’m missing days. Weeks. What happened to them?”

His confusion is so unlike the Castiel he knows it hurts Dean to see the uncertainty in his face, to hear the clipped, measured way he speaks Standard, like it’s a foreign tongue he speaks only for Dean’s benefit. He doesn’t know how to answer him for fear of what he says might shatter the tentative control Cas has found.

“I think you ought to speak with Dr. Visyak,” Dean says.

“Dr. Visyak,” he echoes. “I know her.” He sounds unsure.

“Yes. You know her.”

“Can she tell me what happened, to the missing weeks?”

“Yes.” Dean hopes his voice sounds more confident than he feels. “We’ll get properly dressed and then we’ll go call her.”

Cas remains silent. Dean continues to hold him, not sure Cas understands him. But he shakes his head, like he’s clearing something, looks directly at Dean and, for an instant at least, looks perfectly sane. “Do you know how many people I’ve killed? No matter how many I heal, I can never atone for those who died.” And then, like its exhausted what humanity remains in him, Cas shifts his eyes away again and asks another question in Je’jirin.

Dean eases the pressure on his arms, slowly and, as Cas seems content to remain calm, Dean stands up, freeing him. Dressing, Dean keeps a careful watch on him, but Cas merely puts on his clothes and straightens them with an attention to detail which surprises Dean. He allows Dean to lead him out of the small room, but once out in the larger room he lets go of Dean and paces across to the high counter, which besides a single table and chair, is the only piece of furniture in the room. He climbs up on it and composes himself, cross-legged, to wait. But as Dean moves to the door, he feels Cas’ entire awareness centered on him—not just his sight, but every other sense as well.

The door opens with an exhale of air as Dean gets to it. Dr. Visyak stands just across the threshold. Whatever she feels on seeing Dean emerge intact from the privacy room with her patient is not apparent in her expression. She looks, as usual, cool.

“Will you come in?” Dean asks. “I think you can talk to him now.”

Dr. Visyak steps inside and the door shuts behind her. “What will you do?” she asks.

“I have to go, try to arrange for his release and discharge an obligation.”

“His release? It’s rather early for that.” The doctor looks past Dean to the still figure sitting on the counter.

“He’s not going to recover here.”

“No,” Dr. Visyak agrees. “Prison’s not a healthy place for Je’jiri, half blood or otherwise. Insist Rehabilitation consult me before they make a decision.”

“I will.” Dean turns and walks back to stand in front of Cas. He reaches out to lay a hand over one of his. His eyes don’t waver from Dean’s face. “Cas, this is Dr. Visyak.”

He glances at the doctor and blinks. “I remember you,” he says, but immediately he looks back at Dean.

“Cas. I have to leave for a short time. Dr. Visyak will stay and talk with you. But I’ll be back soon.”

“Of course you will.” He regards him solemnly but with a depth of trust Dean finds unnerving.

Despite the audience, Dean leans forward and kisses him. A chaste kiss, but somehow it seals his promise. He turns and leaves Cas with Dr. Visyak. He chooses not to look back, but as he steps through the door, he hears the doctor’s calm voice.

“I’m glad you remember me, Castiel. It’s been a lot years, hasn’t it?”

The door slides shut, cutting off Cas’ reply. Above, he finds three assistants monitoring the large bank of screens. One agrees to lead him out, then in an excess of goodwill Dean’s finding to be a common trait shared by most of the people he’s met in League space, agrees to also show him personally back through the confusing vastness of Concord’s interlinking building blocks and unbroken flow of murals to concourse Amity and _Sovereign One’s_ berth.

Everyone on board—Pinto, Paisley, Jody, Victor and Jo—turns at his entrance. No one speaks. Their politeness seems charged more with tension than courtesy, like everyone’s expecting the worst but they don’t want it confirmed. In a fit of annoyance Dean walks all the way forward in silence and straps himself in to the chair beside Pinto before he turns. They still wait, eyes following his least movement, his faintest change of expression. The feeling of being on stage makes him uncomfortable and he wonders—quite at odds with the situation—what hidden trait in Master Smith made him choose acting as a career, before and even during, his saboteur days.

“I saw him,” he speaks cutting through the silence. They let out their breaths in a collective sigh, but still no one speaks. “He’s definitely not well.” Dean hesitates, but looking at his audience he realizes of all people, these deserve to know the truth. “He can’t decide whether he wants to be human or Je’jiri—not consciously, I mean. It’s like he’s struggling back and forth inside himself. He’s got no recollection at all of what happened at Holbrook except as the vaguest dream.”

“Nightmare,” Victor murmurs.

“I don’t even know if he’d remember any of you. Or Riven space. Most of the time he spoke in Je’jirin.”

“Oh, Dean,” Jody starts.

It sounds too much like pity to Dean’s ears. “I don’t think it’s hopeless,” he cuts in sharply. “He remembered my name and I’m satisfied he’s in the hands of a competent doctor.”

Jo makes noises of agreement.

“What do we do now?” Victor asks.

Dean looks at Pinto. “Get traffic control. We’re detaching and returning to the _Sovereign_.”

“Dean!” Jo stands up. “You _promised_ me if I arranged for you to see Angel, you would in good faith turn yourself in on the charges—”

“Jo. I won’t wait on their convenience in Void knows what kind of prison or holding cell they’d put us in. Sam and I aren’t citizens of League space. We’ve got no guarantees they’ll treat us fairly, not after arriving here to find a bounty hunter stalking us. I expect to be treated with the respect given any refugee. I have responsibilities to my ship and crew. Therefore, we’re returning to the _Sovereign_. Once there, you can arrange whatever kind of hearing is appropriate for our circumstances with the department who issued the charges—in front of some kind of impartial panel as well, I hope—and Sam and I will come over to Concord for the hearing, with you, at the stated time. No sooner.”

“We’ve clearance to detach,” announces Pinto and then, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not, he undocks the shuttle just roughly enough Jo loses her footing and barely catches the edge of a seat to save herself from falling. She sits down heavily and turns an accusing gaze on Dean. The rest of the shuttle’s occupants brace themselves for the explosion.

“Very well,” she replies in a constrained voice and to everyone’s surprise she simply removes her slate from her belt and starts to key into it. “We’d have needed to go back to the _Sovereign_ to pick up Sam anyway.”

  


.oOo.

  


Back on board the _Royal Sovereign_ , Dean sends Sam and Charlie to review what files they have on the League’s legal system. He then announces an all hands inspection of ship and crew. Jo interrupts him before he can start.

“Two days from now. Eight hundred hours, in Rehabilitation Main Concourse, Saville Block, Hearing Room K22. Does that satisfy you?”

Dean laughs. “You sound so disappointed, Jo. Did you want me hanging by my thumbs?”

“You know very well I don’t want—Oh, never mind.” With the barest sketch of an excuse, she leaves, looking irritable.

Jody, party to this interchange, laughs in her turn. “She can’t complain you reneged on your promise. But I think it irks Jo, you’re dictating the proceedings, not her.”

“Who knows? But it gives us time for this inspection, which we sorely need. The ship hasn’t had a thorough shakedown since before we left Riven space. Are you ready, Officer Mills?”

Jody grins. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Baby?”

A glorious assent.

Victor waits with a full shift and crew on the bridge. He acknowledges Dean but his eyes linger longer on Jody. When the mercenary smiles back at him, he seems abruptly embarrassed and hastens to Dean’s side as he makes the rounds of each console. The Mule gives the longest interview, evidently not having lost their initial enthusiasm or their unadulterated pleasure at being a full-fledged navigator. Benny gives the shortest. He doesn’t seem sullen, merely withdrawn as he runs comm through its paces so efficiently it takes scarcely any time at all, compared to the other stations. For some reason, Pinto watches him with a quizzical look on his face, but he makes no comment. Victor joins them when they leave the bridge.

They get through silver deck before Dean decides to call a stop for the day. Conveniently enough, the last place they visit is the galley and mess. Jo sits alone at one of the tables, a cup of coffee at her right hand, busy keying in to her slate.

“Do you mind if we sit here?” Dean asks, coming up to her.

“It’s your ship,” she says, then sighs and manages a smile. “That wasn’t very nice. Of course I don’t mind.”

“I’ll get drinks,” Victor says.

Dean and Jody settle in chairs across from Jo. Baby hovers at Dean’s back.

“Does the ’bot always shadow you like that?” Jo asks.

“Sometimes. If it’s necessary.”

Baby sings softly.

  
_“Oh, I can't fight this feeling any longer_  
_And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow_  
_What started out this friendship has grown stronger_  
_I only wish I had the strength to let it show”_

  


Dean continues over Baby’s singing. “You seem busy. What are you working on? Our arrest warrants?”

“That’s hardly fair—” She stops herself. Dean grins. “Somehow, I suspect you and Ash got along famously. No, I’m writing up a proposal for a three ship ambassadorial expedition to Riven space to present first to the Intelligence Council and then to Parliament, for approval.”

“To Riven space?”

“You must admit, from what information I’ve gleaned from talking to you and your crew and research in your library, it’s a union consummately to be wished for, or something like that. Isn’t that from Shakespeare? I never was any good at quoting.”

“What’s Shakespeare?” Victor asks as he sets down a tray of drinks. He hesitates at the chair beside Jody then, evidently thinking it impolite to leave Jo alone on the other side, circles the table to sit beside her instead.

Jo sighs. “Which only goes to prove my point. It’s a meeting long overdue. Is it really true Ridanis are segregated there? Paisley made some comments, which I thought I simply misunderstood until I came across some references…” She trails off. “It just seems too bizarre to believe.”

“Yes.” Dean nods. “I think it’s long overdue for Riven space to join up with the home worlds again. Although you’ll meet resistance from Jehane.”

“Jehane? Oh, yes, one of the leaders of this civil disturbance you’ve had. It still seems impossible to me in this day and age humans can behave with such—” She breaks off, seeing how Jody’s and Victor’s expressions change.

Dean looks between the three and speaks up. “You have a tendency to be judgmental, Jo.”

The pause following this remark is stiff. Finally, Jo keys off her slate and stands up. “If I may, Captain, I beg leave to return to my quarters.” But she doesn’t wait for his permission before walking with deliberate ease out of the mess.

Jody is polite enough to wait until the door has shut behind her before she laughs. “Oh, Dean, I’m sorry, but it’s a good thing she’s never seen my complete arsenal of weapons. Or has any inkling of the kind of training an Immortal gets. I know I ought to be more sympathetic, but I don’t think she’s ever been laughed at.”

Victor, too, is smiling, but now he shakes his head. “I’m not so sure. I think maybe she’s used to being laughed at—or at least, had it happen a lot and never really gotten used to it. It’s the sore spots that hurt the most, after all. With your permission, Captain, maybe I’ll catch up and ask her more about this proposal.”

“That’s a generous offer. I didn’t realize you liked her.”

“I don’t dislike her. But I wonder if she has a hard time making friends.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“Here.” Victor picks up the cup of coffee Jo abandoned. “I’ll say she forgot it.” He picks up his own drink and leaves them.

Jody watches him go. “What do you think of him?” she asks suddenly.

Dean shrugs. “Victor? He’s absolutely dependable, levelheaded, competent and capable of taking over command if necessary. Exactly the kind of person who makes a good command officer.”

“Do you suppose he’s any good in bed?”

“Jody!”

“Just a thought. I never was cut out for celibacy, you know. It’s how I got into the whole mess with Mendi in the first place.”

“Jody—”

“Save your sympathy, Dean. I got a beautiful son out of it and… And a daughter, for a while.” Jody rubs her hands over her thighs, takes a deep breath and continues speaking. “Like Victor said, it’s the sore spots which hurt the most and _that one_ will always hurt. But life goes on, sooner or later, with or without you. That’s the choice we always have to make, whether to get on with it. So what do you think?”

“Well,” Dean can’t help but chuckle. “He’ll be dependable.”

Jody laughs. “Kiss of death, Dean. You would get the only man on board who is capable of sustaining an interesting… Although Pinto might well…”

“Doubtless Pinto would.”

There’s a brief silence while they both contemplate Pinto.

“I hate beautiful men,” Jody speaks with, perhaps, more heat than she’s conscious of. “You can’t trust them, present company—and Sam—excepted, of course.”

“Of course.” Then after a moment. “Pinto’s straightforward.” He flushes a little, remembering how straightforward Pinto can be.

“He _is_ a Ridani. They’re all straightforward, Dean.” Her voice drops suddenly, taking on a more solemn, intimate tone. “How is Cas?”

Dean can only shake his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  


.oOo.

  


The call comes in the next day while Dean and his entourage are inspecting Engineering.

“An urgent request to speak with you, Captain,” Benny speaks over comm. “From a Dr. Visyak.”

Dean glances at his audience: Brian and Paisley, Sam, Jody and Victor, Baby and two technicians. At his look, they all retreat to give him privacy. Only Sam and Baby stay. “Put her through. Dr. Visyak? This is Captain Winchester.”

“I’m deeply disappointed, Captain.” Even through the comm-link, Dean can hear the uncharacteristic edge in Dr. Visyak’s otherwise calm voice. “You assured me—” She breaks off, evidently too overcome by emotion for a moment to continue. “I scarcely expected an action of this kind and with a patient so manifestly fragile. I thought you had a real concern for him.”

“An action of _what_ kind, doctor?”

“My experience,” Dr. Visyak continues, like Dean’s relay hasn’t reached her, “tells me kidnapping isn’t any kind of solution toward finding a cure with a deeply disturbed patient. It’s more likely to exacerbate the disturbance, not soothe it, which, I assure you—too late now, unfortunately—is my _only_ goal in this matter, whatever Central Intelligence may have done to him in the past. I thought I made it clear to you I disapprove of their previous incarceration of him and meant to make a report to that effect.” She pauses for breath.

“ _What_ kidnapping?” Only Sam’s hand on his arm stops Dean from moving towards _Sovereign One_.

A silence descends over the comm. “I trust,” Dr. Visyak speaks finally, more slowly and with a touch of uncertainty, “this is not some ploy on your part to attempt to lead me off the scent. I understand he’s your mate, your bond runs deep and the obligations—as you put it when you left—are both strict and all consuming. But that doesn’t excuse—”

“Doctor. One moment please.” Dean sees Victor signaling to them. He waves him over.

As he approaches, Dean can see the frown furrowing Victor’s temple. “Captain.” He looks puzzled. “Benny said there’s another urgent incoming. From our old friend. The bounty hunter. Turner. He said he wants to speak with you about Angel.”

The report leaves him speechless. Dr. Visyak chooses this silence to start again. “Let me repeat, Captain, your bond doesn’t excuse your strongarm kidnapping of your mate from my care. I shudder to contemplate the damage this may cause him. I can only thank you”—here her voice grows plainly sarcastic—“for minimizing the damage done to the suite and our equipment and for so gracefully handling whatever gas you used to render myself and my assistant unconscious. At least you have some scruples. The door will have to be completely replaced.” She hesitates. “I haven’t reported this yet, Captain. Please, if you’ll let me come over to your ship and continue seeing to Castiel’s care.”

“Yes,” he replies tonelessly. “You’d better come over to my ship. I’ll send someone for you.”

“ Thank you. But I prefer to arrange my own transportation, I’m sure under the circumstances, you understand.”

“Certainly,” Dean agrees absently. “Winchester out.” He turns to Sam. He takes a step back, like something in Dean’s expression startles him. “That bastard.”

The comm chimes to life again. “Captain?” We’ve got _another_ incoming.”

“Is it about Cas?”

“No, but—”

“Then it can wait. I’m coming up and I want no interruptions. Understood?”

“Yes, but it’s from the privateer Ellen—”

“ _And_ a full alert code two. Winchester out.” He turns and leaves. Behind him, Baby sings:

  
_“I was caught_  
_In the middle of a railroad track_  
_I looked round_  
_And I knew there was no turning back_  
_My mind raced_  
_And I thought what could I do_  
_And I knew_  
_There was no help, no help from you_  
_Sound of the drums_  
_Beating in my heart_  
_The thunder of guns_  
_Tore me apart.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Can’t Fight This Feeling** by _REO Speedwagon_.  
>  **Thunderstruck** by _AC/DC_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some communication.
> 
> * * *

“This is Winchester.”

Static sounds over the comm.

“Captain. This is Turner.” Background noise muffles his voice. “I have Angel. I’ll trade him for you and Sam. Land a shuttle on Discord by twenty-one hundred hours at these coordinates.” A pause and he speaks the numbers slowly, like he’s reading from a list. “The two of you are to disembark alone. It’s a straight trade, Winchester. Don’t try anything.”

“Listen, Turner. Castiel is seriously ill. You’re jeopardizing—”

“Captain, the link’s been cut from their end. I got a quick trace, but it’s not going to be accurate.”

“Thank you, Benny.” Even meaning the words, Dean can’t keep the hard edge of anger out of his voice. He hasn’t sat down in the captain’s chair, but stands, two fingers still pressing down the ‘comm’ button. Realizing the futility of this action when Sam says his name softly, he lifts his hand. “What’s Discord?”

The Mule answers. “The planet which shares the same orbital path as Concord. According to what files I’ve accessed, it’s designated wilderness and recreation zone.”

“The whole planet?”

“Evidently.”

“Benny, you have a trace yet?”

“Yes. It’s approximate, but it reads as the same coordinates we were given.”

“Thereby giving him plenty of time to move by the time we get there. Victor.” He’d followed them up from Engineering and now he waits. “Prepare a shuttle. I’ll need you, Pinto and Jody. Choose another six for backup. No Je’jiri. Armed. Charlie on the bridge. Benny, stay on comm as much as you can. Take a break when you need to, but I need your skill.”

“Yes, Captain.” The substance of Dean’s praise, even in the clipped tone with which he delivers it, seems to satisfy Benny.

“Mule. When Dr. Visyak arrives, I’d like you to act as liaison. I trust your judgment in explaining the situation to her.”

“As you wish, Captain,” the Mule hisses. Their crest lifts slightly, but subsides again. Pinto unstraps himself from his chair.

“What if it’s a bluff?” Victor starts. “I’m not sure the wisest course is to—” Dean turns his focused attention on him, scarcely aware of him except as an object which Dean can move in order to reach his goal. Victor falters. “I’ll meet you at the shuttle.” He inclines his head, acknowledging Dean’s unspoken order and leaves the bridge.

“Now.” Having dismissed this obstacle, Dean shifts his attention to Charlie. “You’ll be in charge of the bridge. Dr. Visyak is to be allowed on board. No one else. Not even if we’re delayed and an inquiry comes from Concord or Intelligence. I’m also leaving you the unenviable task of explaining this to Jo—to min Roberts.”

The Mule hisses their fluid laugh and even Benny smiles, but Charlie merely assents without any visible emotion. Dean whistles to Baby and he and Sam leave the bridge with the robot drifting at their backs. They stop in Dean’s suite.

_Baby. Access all information on the planet Discord. What you can get in, say, twenty minutes. Then meet me at the shuttle bay._

_Affirmative, Dean. If I may suggest?_

A two note assent.

_You may well be served to take two shuttles, one which delivers you and Sam to the appointed rendezvous and a second that can serve as a second voice to your plans, one unexpected by your opponent._

“Surely he’ll expect something like that,” Sam answers her. “But I think you’re right.”

Baby accepts this with a muted trill. She plugs in to the wall terminal while Dean changes.

They head to Sam’s cabin next. “We have the meeting already arranged, maybe we can hold Turner off until tomorrow?”

“You didn’t see him Sam, we need to get Cas now, today.”

“Seems a waste to throw away Jo’s work. What if I trade myself for Cas? If he’s in such bad shape, you’re going to be needed here.”

“Turner won’t go for it. He won’t hand Cas over for just you, he’ll want both of us.” Dean reaches over and claps Sam on the shoulder.

Sam stands still for a moment before returning the gesture. “Visyak should be onboard by the time they get back with Cas. Do you trust her?”

They exit Sam’s cabin and head down to iron deck, deliberate and swift. Passing crew members step to the side without speaking because of the expression on Dean’s face.

But not even their combined expressions are enough to deter some. Jo is waiting at the shuttle. Jody’s blocked the hatchway ramp with her body. She’s fitted out in her full mercenary rig, looking dangerous and not a little fierce.

“Guns?” Jo demands as soon as she sees Sam and Dean. “You can’t simply use—”

Dean ignores her. “Jody, tell Victor I want the second shuttle as well. Put your people on it. You’re our backup.”

“Backup!” Jo exclaims as Jody, responding with a salute, disappears down the hatchway. “May I remind you both you have a hearing tomorrow? You gave me your word Dean.”

Now he turns on her and in the face of his anger even she stops speaking. “We will. But perhaps under slightly different circumstances.”

Jo’s eyes flick to Sam, who gives a small shrug. “I thought you were adamant you wouldn’t let the bounty hunter bring you in. I think you’re right about not appearing as criminals.”

“The circumstances have changed. He put a price on our bounty I can’t refuse. He’s got Cas. We’re turning ourselves over in exchange.”

“You’re not making sense. How can he have Angel?”

“He broke him out of Concord prison,” Sam answers.

“Impossible.”

“Maybe. It’s why we’re armed and taking backup. If it’s a bluff, he’ll pay for it.” Dean waits, expecting her reply and ready to deflect it. Then he realizes Jo’s speechless. He looks at Sam. The absurdity of Jo being unable to find words makes him smile, a little.

Finally, her silence is overtaken with the throbbing hum of the shuttle’s engines at lowest power and she speaks. “You’ve been around Je’jiri too long. I think you’ve absorbed some trace element of them in your blood. I wouldn’t want you on _my_ trail, not unless you were coming to help me.”

Sam gives the same small shrug and looks at Dean with pride. His look, as much as Jo’s comment, leaves Dean speechless.

“Have you—” Jo changes focus to Sam. “Has he always been this way?”

The truth of the question hangs like a physical presence. His pursuit of martial arts. Their pursuit of Bobby. Paisley on Hexham. Each expedition Dean led for Jehane, even at the end, as he tried to save Dorothy from death. The choice to leave the Riven and find League space.

“Yes,” Sam says slowly, his love and respect for his brother evident in his voice. “He has.”

Jo smiles slightly, shaking her head with a weak chuckle. “So Dad finally did get a child who took after him. Once he took up on something, he wouldn’t let it go until he’d finished it. I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Certainly I do. You need a Concord representative to protect your interests and to make sure this bounty hunter turns over his hostage. He’ll be prosecuted for that, you know—I can’t imagine why he did it, unless he hopes no one will _believe_ Concord’s prison security could be breached. Anyway, the only way you can stop me from going is to use force.”

Dean looks like he’s going to do just that when Sam interrupts him. “We don’t have time.” He has a grin on his face as he says. “She’s more damn stubborn than either of us combined.”

“ _That’s_ a trait I got from my mom.” She walks through the hatchway.

“Aren’t you going to take anything? Or change your clothes, even?”

“Oh, no, brother dearest. I’m not taking the chance you’ll leave me behind.”

Sam laughs loudly and Dean joins him, letting Sam pull him onto the shuttle.

With Pinto at the controls and Dean on comm, it leaves the rest of the shuttle to Sam, Victor, Jo and Baby. Dean regards Pinto with misgivings, unsure how Cas might react to him but at the same time wondering if Pinto and Victor will seem familiar enough to Cas to garner any recognition at all.

“Once I’m gone, if he panics, you might have to restrain him until you can get him to secure rooms on the _Sovereign_ ,” Dean speaks and no one asks who he’s talking about.

They detach from the _Sovereign_ smoothly. The second shuttle follows them and curves off on a new course to come in toward the rendezvous point from a different and presumably less conspicuous direction. Dean’s sporadic and perfunctory replies on comm leave the cabin swathed in uncomfortable silence.

“Why Discord?” Sam asks finally, wanting any distraction. “It seems a strange name for a planet next to a construct like Concord.”

Jo smiles. “Opposites attract. Originally, when this system was chosen as Concord’s home, they meant to build on the planet. It’s a class-A habitat. But they realized disrupting its ecology to that extent would negate everything Concord stands for. There were a lot of arguments around it. Hence, Discord. Eventually it became a designated wilderness and park. The only permanent habitations are for the park rangers and the zoned resorts.”

“So people can visit it?” Victor shakes his head. “There were never enough class-A planets in Riven space not to use them all for agriculture.”

“No, Discord’s been left as it is, but it serves a good recreational purpose as well. In the zoned areas people can holiday, do sports, hike, swim, observe. Some even war game.”

“They do what?”

Jo shrugs. “It’s a kind of sport. Very safe. I’ve never done it myself, I had enough of the real thing in my youth.”

“People play at—” Victor coughs, deliberately obscuring his amazement. “Never mind. Are we landing in a zoned area or a… What did you call it? Wilderness area?”

“From what I can tell, it’s a wilderness area. Which makes sense, it’s against the law—you’re meant to have a permit—but if the bounty hunter did break into Concord prison, I doubt he’s concerned.” Victor doesn’t answer.

  


.oOo.

  


They descend through a bank of clouds to see a carpet of trees beneath them. A lake breaks the ocean of green along one horizon, but otherwise, aside from the occasional bald strip of meadow and several watercourses cutting their silvery way through the forest, the ranks of trees stretch unbroken on all sides.

Dean turns in his seat to face Sam. “I want you to stay on the shuttle. I’m going to trade myself for Cas.” Dean speaks softly enough only Sam and Pinto can hear him.

“Dean no. I’m not letting you go by yourself.”

“Why not? You were going to do the same thing, offer yourself for Cas.”

“Because Cas is going to need you, not me. It made sense for me to go. Besides, you’re right, he’s not going to accept just one of us. It’s all or nothing.”

“That’s it,” Pinto interrupts. “The escarpment along the ridge—that clearing. I don’t see any signs of another ship.” He looks at Dean like he’s expecting Dean to change his mind.

“Land.” Dean taps in a tight beam to the other shuttle but doesn’t call on it. Baby winks amber lights in the seat beside Sam. Pinto shakes his head slightly, as he brings the shuttle in smoothly, landing on a fairly level patch of ground as close to the center of the clearing as he can manage. The engine volume cuts substantially as he lowers them to standby. There’s silence in the cabin as they wait. Sam and Dean unstrap themselves and Baby, then head for the hatch.

“Lower the ramp. Jo, don’t try to follow us. We’re going out alone.”

“But—” Victor, Jo and Pinto all speak at once. They look between each other quickly to see who’s going to speak for them and Jo wins the silent argument. She didn’t take into account Dean staring each of them down in turn. Jo takes the longest, but she too doesn’t attempt any further objection.

Dean pauses at the top of the ramp, Sam at his side, Baby hovering behind them. The brush of air against his face, the high fence of trees about fifty meters from the shuttle, it all reminds Dean of their landing on Arcadia. He tries to remember how many planetfalls he’s made in the intervening time. It’s not been many. He smiles at Sam, thinking how ironic it seems they’d gone to so much trouble to escape the confines of Campbell House only to confine themselves in the thin, constraining walls of a spaceship instead.

Sam spins his head and Dean follows, catching in his peripheral vision the movement which caught Sam’s attention. One of the Ardakians is fading back into the forest screen. They walk down to the bottom of the ramp and wait.

Wind brushes a stray lock of Sam’s hair across his eyes and as he reaches up to brush it away, two figures appear at the edge of the trees. Sam recognizes Rufus Turner immediately. The other figure—tall, slender—stands with a posture unfamiliar to him. A moment later Sam realizes he has blue hair, it can only be Cas, who at any other time he’d have recognized at a glance from twice the distance. With a sudden wrench of fear, Sam wonders if he still remembers him. He takes a less than subtle step away from Dean.

Dean stares at the two men, hoping the break from Concord’s prison didn’t break the tenuous link he’s reforged with Cas. Without thinking, he takes ten steps out away from the ship and only a surprised sound from Sam stops him. Dean pauses for Sam to rejoin him and they wait together.

Turner gestures and Cas walks forward, Turner a steady two paces behind him. They walk halfway into the space between the trees and the shuttle and stop. In the forest behind, Dean can discern no sign of either Fred or Augustus.

Baby, between the brother’s shoulders, sings softly.

  
_“The jig is up, the news is out_  
_They finally found me_  
_The renegade who had it made_  
_Retrieved for a bounty”_

  


Dean reaches up to lay a gentle hand on her gleaming surface. _Don’t worry,_ he whistles quietly. _He doesn’t have us yet. Why do you think I brought you along?_

_Have you a plan, Dean? ___

_No,_ he admits. _First, get Cas back. If Sam and I are the price for that, so be it._ He briefly looks at Sam, who gives him such a non-look Dean knows he’s onboard with whatever happens now. They start walking to meet Turner. Floating behind them Baby sings in muted tones, almost like she’s speaking to herself, or musing over some problem.

  
_“Dear Mama, I can hear you a-cryin', you're so scared and all alone_  
_Hangman is comin' down from the gallows, and I don't have very long”_

  


Nearing them, Dean watches Cas tilt his head to side, scenting. Dean knows exactly when he’s caught his scent by the way Cas’ attention fastens on him. Turner stands beside him in the deceptively casual stance of a well-honed fighter. Dean forces himself not to look at Cas, to look only at Turner. Closing, Dean’s surprised to see whatever signs of indulgence and exhaustion he’s previously seen in Turner are now completely gone. It’s not just his Ardakian companions who make him dangerous and effective. Seeing Turner now, Dean can’t help but be reminded of Bobby. Sam and Dean stop, it could have been rehearsed their timing is so absolute. Three meters separate them and Dean finally allows himself to really look at Cas.

Cas’ eyes don’t waver from Dean’s face. Dean can feel them remain on him even as he turns to regard Turner.

“I’m unarmed,” Turner tells them grinning. It makes his face come alive. “I haven’t had this kind of challenge in a long, long time.”

“Boredom can take its toll,” Sam replies.

“How the hell did you get him out of there?” Dean asks, cutting to the point.

“Trade secret. It helps to have a computer expert and an explosives expert to hand as well. Just like the old days.” Turner’s still grinning, but no longer at them. “They’ve forgotten there wasn’t a security line we couldn’t breach.”

“Who’s forgotten?” Sam asks.

Turner’s expression sobers instantly. “It’s not important. Are you turning yourselves over to me? No tricks?”

“We’re unarmed. That’s the only guarantee I’ll give you. Until Cas is free.” Dean tells him.

“And then—?”

“Then we’ll go with you.” Sam replies.

For a moment Turner merely looks at them, trying to read something, but he shakes his head and takes a step back from Cas and speaks several sentences in Je’jirin.

Cas swivels his head smoothly to regard Turner with the characteristic unblinking and disconcerting Je’jiri stare. His reply, clipped and precise, is short.

Turner shakes his head again and answers, still in Je’jirin. His delivery doesn’t have the precision of Cas’, but it sounds fluent to Dean’s ears.

“What are you saying?” he demands.

“Telling him he can go free.”

“Our shuttle—” Sam starts but Turner speaks over him.

“Not into your hands. Not into anyone’s hands. _Free_.”

“You said you would trade him for us.”

“Trade you two for his freedom. There’s a difference.” The brilliant light of Discord’s sun illuminates harsh lines on his face. “I won’t allow him to be forced back into prison. I agreed to let him go. Not to you.”

“Not to anyone?” Dean echoes, scornful now. “You’ve no honor at all, do you? You can’t even be trusted to hold a simple agreement.”

“No honor among thieves.” Turner’s voice is bitter. “But there is loyalty. People forget that.”

“I’d like to know what makes you think I’d let him go back to prison.”

Turner grunts. “How can you stop it? Stop Concord from taking him in again?”

“Once you let him go ‘free,’ how can you stop them?” Sam asks.

“At least he’d have a chance to get to The Pale.”

Dean deliberately looks away from Turner and directly at Cas. He returns his gaze intently, but neutrally.

“Cas.” Dean speaks slowly and with careful enunciation, so he’ll have no trouble understanding him. “The shuttle behind me carries three people. I trust them to take care of you. Will you go with them until I can return to you?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies without hesitation.

For a moment, Dean allows himself to be diverted by Turner’s expression. He looks dumbfounded. Then, catching himself, Turner speaks swiftly and passionately to Castiel. Cas’ reply is brief, punctuated by a shrug made alien by the set and movement of his shoulders and he moves away from Turner to align himself instead with Dean.

The relief Dean feels, the simple joy of Cas’ complete trust is abruptly overshadowed by the knowledge Dean’s about to lose him again.

“You’re his _mate_?” Turner stares, astonished, at Dean. “Mother’s tits. No wonder you were willing to trade yourself and your brother for him. I had a hunch you’d do it, but I didn’t know why.” He lifts a hand and at the signal the two Ardakians appear at the edge of the forest. Both are armed. Both use the cover of the trees to effectively shield themselves from any fire the shuttle might produce. “Sorry,” Turner continues, apologetically. “But I can’t take the chance you’ll try to escape again. Fred’s got enough firepower to blow the shuttle and it’s rather a sitting target. You might have positioned it better.”

“I always meant to keep my end of the exchange. Cas for us. I’m trusting,” he lets his voice grow skeptical, “you to let both Cas and the shuttle go.”

Turner laughs, brief and bitter. “I’ve got a damned poor reputation, don’t I?” He sobers abruptly. “Tell him to go. I want to get this over with.”

“Cas.”

Instead of replying, he dips his head, brushing Dean’s cheek with one side of his face and then Cas walks away across the meadow, toward the shuttle. Nature’s silence fades as a high buzzy whine sounds in the distance, steady and growing.

“I’ll be damned,” Turner breathes. “How in hell did you end up with Angel?”

But finally, several discrete bits of information click into place in Dean’s mind. “You were a saboteur. That’s how you know him. _That’s_ where your loyalty lies.”

“You pissing well didn’t think it was with Concord Intelligence, did you?” He sounds offended and taken by surprise.

Sam and Dean laugh.

His surprise turns to suspicion. “What’s so damn funny? I know you weren’t with us.” The harsh lines on his face furrow.

Dean reaches inside his tunic and draws out the medallion, Sam mimicking him and revealing his own. “What do these mean anyway?” Dean asks. “Do you know?”

“How’d you get those?” He repeats his question from so long ago, his voice belligerent. “How’d you meet Angel?” He pauses and waits, obviously reluctant to say whatever it is he’s going to say next. “How do you know Singer?”

“We got these from him. He’s our father.” Sam answers.

Turner hunches in on himself. He looks beyond Sam and Dean, and Dean glances over his shoulder to see Cas has reached the shuttle but has stopped at the ramp, watching them. Looking back at Rufus Turner, Dean suddenly and inexplicably feels guilty, because it’s obvious this new knowledge is causing the bounty hunter inner anguish. The distant whine has grown to a low rumble.

“You’re Singer’s _sons_?” It’s as much as he can do to get those three words out.

“Not by blood,” Sam says quickly.

“No, you mean in the craft.” He looks abruptly and terribly sad. “Means the same thing. Oh God, they betrayed us all.”

It takes Dean a moment to register his words. “What’re you talking about?”

“Go,” he says brusquely. “Take Angel and go. They said you’d been traveling with Singer. I didn’t ask for specifics. I didn’t want to know. I damned well spent the whole hunt pretending it was a coincidence, that and the mark.”

“What mark?”

“The medallion. Just go. I can’t take you in now.”

“Wait a minute—”

The rumble increases to a scream and a ship buzzes low and fast over the meadow. It’s a sleek, modern vessel of a type Dean’s never seen before. As he stares, it overshoots the meadow, banks and returns, lower now.

Turner swears, reaching out and yanks Sam and Dean roughly to the ground. He falls flat on his stomach between them.

Laser fire streaks from the ship. Lines of flame light up and die in the grass. There’s a sudden, horrifying snap, followed by a low explosion and a gout of fire and smoke erupt from _Sovereign One’s_ far window. Dean rolls to his feet.

“Get down!” Turner shouts.

Cas, still standing by the ramp, stares up at the ship banking to return. He shows no indication he’s aware he’s in danger.

Jo appears, stumbling down the shuttle’s ramp. Smoke billows out behind her.

“Fred. Augustus.” Turner speaks to himself, yet obviously to the two Ardakians who are clearly too far away to hear him. “Can you get a shot?”

The ship is already firing again. Beams of light pepper the metal of the shuttle. Dean starts to run, but someone—Sam—tackles him from behind throwing him headlong into the grass. Laser fire singes grass and dirt a meter in front of them. Behind, from the cover of the trees, two guns sound.

“Let me go.” Dean struggles almost getting away from Sam, but Turner adds his training and experience.

Smoke and fire stream from every opening and several ragged holes in the shuttle. Jo yells something at Angel and turns to go back inside. Cas doesn’t move, oblivious to everything but the arc and turn of the ship in the sky above as it banks for its next pass.

“We’re the targets,” Turner shouts. “Break for the trees.” He tugs at Dean and doesn’t let go as he stands. “You can’t help them by going to them. Break!” They all run for the trees.

Fire sears the meadow around them as they sprint. Dean feels its hot breath brush pass his cheek. They throw themselves into the cover of the nearest tree, not five meters from Fred.

Seeing them, he lowers his large gun. It looks archaic, but effective. “Sorry, boss. No range at their speed.”

Dean turns.

In time to see Jo reeling, alone, out of the shuttle. Cas still watching the sky. The other ship banks again.

Victor appears dragging a limp Pinto with one arm and carrying the shuttle’s hand pack radio in the other. Jo takes the radio allowing Victor to maneuver Pinto down the ramp.

Cas finally turns, registering their presence with sudden interest. Words are exchanged. Victor hoists Pinto across his back. They jog as best they can away from the shuttle.

The other ship dips low, firing.

This time the shuttle vanishes in an explosion throwing the three runners and Pinto to the ground. Dean feels the wave of heat and pressure. He turns Sam into the tree, protecting his back as much as he can.

The ship pulls in a tight circle, altering its course to streak low across the prostrate people and begins firing at the trees. Behind it, coming in low over the hills, appears a second vessel of the same type. It doesn’t fire at all, but comes to an impossible stop in midair and sinks, engines screaming, to land beside the charred, smoking hulk of the ruined shuttle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Renegade** by _Styx_.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I conjure you by that which you profess—
> 
> * * *

As the first ship still in the air overshoots their position, Fred hoists his gun nimbly over one broad shoulder and moves quickly over to where Sam, Dean and Turner huddle between two tree trunks.

“Armored, boss.” He makes a movement with his head, indicating the landed ship. “We got nothing‘ll crack it.”

Turner swears, a string of oaths Dean doesn’t recognize. “The bastards must have brought those in from The Pale.” He looks at Sam and Dean and Dean’s surprised to see he’s grinning. “They must want you bad.” He hoists himself up, a smooth, trained movement at odds with the stubble on his unshaven face and the shabbiness of his clothing. “Let’s go. This cover ain’t good enough and we got company.”

Sam and Dean turn with Turner. Above, Dean can hear the sound of the ship pulling around over the trees. But the other ship, the one that landed, has lowered a ramp and eight armed figures emerge from the ship.

“My people—” Dean can’t see any sign of them in the grass.

Before he can move, Fred grabs him and, while Sam is distracted, Turner grabs him as well.

“Winchester. The odds aren’t with us right now. _Let’s go_.”

“I won’t leave them to be killed!”

Turner looks sincerely perplexed. “Why would they kill them?”

“I’ve no idea. But someone just tried to.”

“They weren’t after them. They were gunning for us. Your people are safe enough.”

Dean tugs against Fred but his hold is ridiculously strong. “Do you expect me to take that chance?” he demands.

Turner sighs and makes a sign with one hand to Fred. “No. You just have to trust me.”

Dean doesn’t bother to dignify the comment with a reply. Sam holds his look for a moment and Dean knows his brother is ready to break as soon as Dean does.

Fred’s grip shifts and Dean twists his arms spinning, lunging for freedom.

Only to find himself hoisted up next to Fred’s gun, as helpless in his grip as said gun. His view is further into the depths of the forest and of Augustus, appearing some five meters away from behind a tree which shouldn’t have been broad enough to conceal his stocky form.

“Rufus,” he says primly, “there are twelve armed humans heading this way. No. Six have broken off to retrieve the min Winchesters’ companions. I suggest we make haste.”

“He’s right, boss.” Fred turns and Dean can see the meadow and the small figures fanning out in order. Six surround his people. He can’t see Cas or Pinto, but Victor has risen to his knees, hands clasped behind his head, and Jo stands up as he watches, setting her hands on her hips. The armed men, approaching, hesitate and lower their guns, evidently cowed by Jo’s posture or by her temper.

“Augustus, you got any gas?” Turner asks.

Dean can’t see them, only hears a soft _thump_ as something is thrown and lands. Then Fred starts to move quickly away. His gait, a remarkably smooth jog, covers distance more quickly than a man can run and he’s nimble enough to weave through the dense wood without faltering.

After about ten minutes Fred stops and sets Dean down. “Boss is right,” he says gruffly, swinging down his gun as well. He doesn’t appear to be winded. “They won’t kill them. You saw it yourself.”

Augustus comes to a stop beside them and lowers Sam to the ground.

“They just blew up our shuttle,” Dean reminds them.

“Why should we believe you?” Sam tacks on.

Fred tugs on one ear with a thick hand. “Seems to me, you got no one else to believe.”

Dean pulls at his shirts, giving himself time to think. The men had, after all, lowered their guns on seeing Jo. Perhaps her Intelligence badge gave her and Dean’s companions immunity. “It seems we’re with you whether we want to be or not.”

Sam moves around to cover Dean’s back and directs his questions to Augustus. “Who were they? Why did they want to kill us? And your boss?”

A branch snaps from the direction they came from. The brothers whirl to face it. Fred and Augustus remain where they’ve come to a rest. Turner appears, looking sweaty and out of breath. Baby follows smoothly behind him.

He pauses, leaning against a tree. “Call me Rufus,” he says, “Bobby does. Must be the saboteur connection. It’s the only link between us. Someone’s finally decided to be rid of us once and for all.”

Dean feels the blood drain from his face. “Even if the others are safe, we just abandoned Cas to them. I gotta get back.”

Simultaneously, both Fred and Augustus wrinkle their noses and look to the left. Augustus makes a face and takes two sidesteps right.

“Company, boss,” Fred says.

He walks out of the trees, a tall, slender figure, hair muted in the shadows made by the forest’s canopy.

“Cas!”

His eyes flick over Dean, but Dean knows him well enough, even as changed as Cas is—especially as changed as Cas is—to understand he marks him more by scent now than by vision. He moves to stand close to Dean and turns to speak a quick sentence in Je’jirin to Rufus.

Rufus replies and looks at Dean. “He said they took the other three captive and all twelve of those from the shuttle are on our trail.”

“Pinto, is he alive?” Dean asks.

Cas shutters his eyes and appears to take in a breath, or the smell of the air. “Alive,” he says. Strangely, his hands twitch, like some reflex has taken hold of them and he hesitates. Finally, he speaks in slow, struggling Standard. “Not badly hurt. He will live.” It’s clearly a diagnosis, however general.

“Thank the Void,” Sam breathes.

“Well Rufus. Now what?” Dean turns half his attention to the older man. “Who do you think is hunting us?”

“As far as I know the only people who knew I was hunting you two, were the ones as hired me—Concord Intelligence. But I can’t believe Naomi Guberno would do this. However hard she might be, she’s normally fair.”

“I suggest we find out once we’re safe on my ship. I have a shuttle at—Baby, what are the coordinates?”

In Paisley’s voice, Baby reels them off.

“Mine’s closer.” Rufus makes a hand sign to Fred and Augustus. “We’ll go ahead. They’ll cover our backs.”

“Doesn’t that put them in more danger?” Sam questions.

“Diplomatic immunity, of a fashion.” He grins. “Even for two outlaws like Fred and Aug. Can’t risk damaging trade agreements by offending the honorables who govern in the Ardakian system.”

“Which way?” Rufus points and they let him set the pace. He takes it at a slow run. Sam keeps pace slightly behind, stepping only where Rufus steps. Dean follows and he wonders how badly Rufus has ruined his health in the last few years. Cas lopes effortlessly along beside Dean. The effect is uncanny. He’s never shown such obvious fitness before, or such otherworldly alertness. Every three steps he takes in a quick breath scenting and he never once falters on the uneven ground of the forest floor. How did he get away from the meadow? Dean doesn’t think the Cas he once knew could’ve done it.

They come to a ravine hidden in a wrinkle of the low hills and Rufus turns into it. Of Fred and Augustus’ passage behind them Dean can hear nothing. Wind stirs the trees above and then the low, hard sound of a ship passing close above grows and thunders then ebbs about them. A moment later, an explosion—not too far, not too close.

“Shit!” Rufus swears. “Fucking sons of whores and their drunken fathers with them—” He breaks off. “Come on.”

They scramble down a steep slope and follow a rushing stream until it curves around a high bank and empties into a pond at one end of a tiny, circular meadow. The burning remains of a small ship lay strewn across the ground. Smoke spirals up to mark its resting place. As they pause at the edge of the clearing to stare, the whine of an engine builds in volume behind them.

Sam and Dean fade back into the trees, but Rufus continues to stare, in disgust, or fury. “Come on,” Sam hisses, like the ship approaching might hear him if he speaks above a whisper. “We have to double back, try to reach our other shuttle.”

For a beat, Dean thinks Rufus hasn’t heard him. But he turns and gives them a wry, twisted smile, bitter as a cruel joke. “The bastards have ruined my credit line for certain now. How the hell do they expect me to pay for that?”

Meeting his eyes, Dean feels suddenly, not sorry for him, but a sense of comradeship. “Don’t you get a substantial bounty for turning us in? I thought we were worth quite a bit to you.”

“Looks like the two of you are worth my life.” He slips into the shadow of a broad-trunked tree as the ship streaks past overhead and drops another explosive into the hulk of the stranded ship for good measure, reducing it to an unrecognizable hulk of smoke, metal and spitting fire. “No. My death. Which I guess is worth more to Concord Intelligence.”

“You don’t have any enemies? From anywhere else who might want you dead?” Sam asks.

“Kapellans might want me dead, but they’d never act on it. Not their way. Bobby’s the only one of us they hated enough to ever try to kill outright. No, these are human ships. Only someone from Concord Intelligence could’ve known my movements. Known about you. Only someone who really hated us would’ve gone this far.” He pauses, listening. “Yeah,” he says, but not to them. “We’ll circle back.” He looks back to Dean. “All right, what were those coordinates again?”

Sam and Dean don’t like moving in forests. They’re used to cleaner lines of sight, to gauging for corners and set widths of corridors and tunnels. Hard surfaces for leaning and pushing off from. Nothing here seems solid enough to rely on. Too much wind, too much extraneous noise, too many curves, gaps and inconstant backdrops. Rufus seems right at home. Baby sings to herself— _“I see a bad moon a-rising, I see trouble on the way”_ —at such low volume only Dean can hear her because she hovers not two hand-breadths from his right ear.

Cas appears unfazed by the way the shadows shift without warning. Fred, to Sam and Dean’s vast surprise, sniffs about several broad tree trunks and with more speed than grace scrambles up one and vanishes from their view. Augustus hoists the heavy gun Fred was carrying onto his back and straps it there, oblivious to its extra weight.

They haven’t walked more than ten minutes when Rufus stops them with a raised hand and, pausing, Dean hears a brief snatch of conversation from ahead.

Cas beside him says, “Four.”

Rufus glances at them. “We’re seven,” he says.

They fan out. It proves easy enough. A distraction from above, by Baby, a quick, controlled move in to get inside their guns and all four of the soldiers—if that’s what they are—are flat on the ground. It’s been a long time since Dean’s felt like he and Sam were the least experienced fighters in any group, however small. Even Cas dispatched his target with uncharacteristic precision. Je’jiri precision.

“They’ve got trank guns,” Rufus says in disgust. “Look at where the levels are locked. This’d kill an elephant. I wonder if these poor sods knew, or if it was meant to be an accident?”

“Rufus,” Augustus says as he takes his victim’s gun and reconfigures the level of tranquilizer. “We have another group of four closing at northwest.”

“Sam, Dean.” Rufus is also setting a new level in the gun he holds. “You know how to work these guns?”

“No.”

“Aug, shoot them all. Here.” He tosses the gun he’s reset to Sam. “Let’s go.”

Dean pauses, standing over an unconscious figure beneath him and stares at Rufus. Does he mean to kill them? A wash of memory hits him—of the first person he killed, in the raid in the 30s dig on Hexham. He forces himself to look down. Through the thin plastic helmet he recognizes the face of a man—young enough, with pale skin and thin lips gaping open. He looks quickly to Sam, no longer sure he can kill someone this helpless.

“You’re just going to kill them?” Sam looks at the gun in his hands.

Rufus stops, staring at him. “ _Kill_ them? Why the pissing hell would I want to kill them? They’re hirelings, looking at this gear, they’re probably from some pumped up detective firm. Don’t even know what they’re doing, or what they’re up against. It’s them what hired ‘em _I_ want.”

To their left, Augustus shoots—once, twice, three times—and comes over to Dean where he still stands above the unconscious man. “Might I request you stand aside, please?” he asks, more sarcastic than polite.

“We’re just tranking them. Acceptable levels.” Rufus says. “Not the ones that were meant for us.”

Dean steps back to Sam’s side. “Oh.” Cas’ already fading back into the trees, attention on the distant approach of the next four.

“Where do you come from?” Rufus asks. “You two have some pretty strange notions. It ain’t war anymore. We did our job. Haven’t you had enough killing?”

“More than enough.”

“Rufus. Two hundred meters, northwest,” Augustus speaks.

“Split and fan out. Same tactics.” Rufus tells them. “Sam, you take down anyone who tries to run.”

They take out the next four and swing wide around the original clearing. Luck is with them and they don’t encounter anyone else. The ship hunting them passes overhead at least six times and they continue to hear it running a slow sweep pattern over the area as they walk. Dean doesn’t see Fred at all, but once a branch comes crashing down from above and almost hits Rufus in the head. He swears good naturedly into the air, talking to Fred through their invisible comm-system.

It takes slightly over an hour to cross the rough terrain, keeping a careful watch, stopping frequently to listen, to come within wrist-comm short-line hailing distance of _Sovereign Two_. By unspoken agreement they haven’t risked any other communications for fear it could be intercepted.

Dean’s first attempt on comm gets no answer. “I don’t want to try it again. In case they can pick it up. I’ll send Baby ahead.” Rufus shrugs his assent and he speaks his commands to Baby, rather than whistling. Baby blinks lights, rises and vanishes into the leaves. Cas comes and crouches at his feet, still but alert, like some kind of hunting animal. It makes Dean nervous, the uncanny quietness with which Cas regards him and their surroundings in turn.

“Ain’t many of those left,” Rufus says.

The comment startles him. “Je’jiri?”

He grins, glancing down at Cas, then back at Dean. “Those ’bots. We used them, those we could get. Frank Devereaux was the best with ’em. He bonded a Corvette. They said he was never the same after it burned out.”

They wait. Baby returns and singing softly, _Dean, I saw the shuttle. It’s undamaged. I didn’t venture into the clearing itself, but saw no sign of any of the shuttle’s occupants or of any other activity._

Dean translates. Rufus rubs the perpetual stubble on his chin.

“It isn’t likely they missed it,” Sam says.

“They might’ve. Fred, take a look.”

Wind—or Fred—rustles in the branches above. They wait again. Under the trees, it grows darker as the sun sinks towards evening. Dean can hear the trail of the ship as it passes close by them and fades into the distance.

Rufus shifts suddenly. “Are you sure?” he says to the air, then turns to Sam and Dean. “Fred says no sign of a fight. If we make a rush for it we can get off the ground before they strike.”

Sam and Dean look at each other wondering where their friends are, Dean looks back at Rufus and nods, they continue on. The uncanny silence with which Cas walks beside him, following directions without comment except for the occasional brief string of words directed at Rufus, makes Dean uneasy. Even now, he keeps reminding himself, this isn’t the same man—or man at all. No matter how his heart feels.

Soon enough they reach the edge of a clearing. _Sovereign Two_ sits in the middle of the stretch of grass and flowering stalks. All’s quiet. Dean lifts the wrist-comm to his mouth. “Winchester here.” Like an answer, a figure appears on the ramp, staring around. It waves, not at them, but at their presence. The shuttle’s engines come to life, warming up for the lift.

“That’s Jody,” Sam tells Rufus. The sound of the shuttle’s engines mask the noise of the distant ship circling the area. “It must be clear.”

“Fred.” Rufus’ comment is a command. He looks at Sam. “We’d better break now. That ship’ll be back.” A moment later branches crack and a spray of sticks and leaves pepper the ground as Fred drops nimbly out of the canopy.

They run out of the cover of the forest in a group, spreading out quickly. Jody, seeing their numbers, raises her gun, but holds it steady until Dean stops at the base of the ramp.

“Jody. They’re clear. Let’s go.”

Jody nods and turns to go inside the shuttle. Dean lets the others precede him, watching the sky until everyone is inside. Above the far rank of trees, he sees a slim metallic shape skimming toward them. He hurries inside and closes the ramp behind him, strapping in as the pilot jogs the controls and starts a steep rise from the ground. Dean can’t help but reflect, thrown to one side by the hard bank, that even under such circumstances Pinto would’ve made the ascent smooth. Where’s Pinto now? Surely they wouldn’t have killed an injured man?

They rise, shuddering under the strain and scream of engines. A sudden blow rocks them.

“Shit!” Rufus grabs chair arms and pulls himself forward to the front. “Bastards are firing on us.”

A second blow. “Lost the number three thruster,” swears the pilot, “and I’ve got a broken connection to the back four throttles.” Smoke seeps in through the roof panels. “I can’t hold it.”

“Put it down.” Dean reaches reflexively for the gun missing from his belt. “Jody, get everyone armed. Turner—Rufus. What weapons do you have?”

Rufus starts to speak when a sudden, hard jerk of the shuttle sits him down in the center aisle. He grabs and holds onto an arm and stops speaking as the shuttle yaws crazily to one side and then bumps roughly to a landing back in the clearing. Out of the front plass window they can all see as two of the fine silver ships land gracefully beside them. “What kind of weapons do you think these people have? In a firefight, we lose.”

Dean unstraps and retrieves a pistol and a laser rifle from the locker beside him. Rainbow hands out weapons to the other crew. “I thought you said they meant to kill us. I’m not going quietly.”

“Boss.” Fred is looking out the front window. “We’ve got company out the forward ship. Concord Intelligence badge and the woman who was with the Captain—she’s got a CI badge too.”

Dean looks up. “Jo!”

“Jo?” Rufus stands and stares. “I thought she looked familiar. Hell if it ain’t Singer’s daughter.” The statement stops him, he glances wonderingly at Sam and Dean. “That’d make her your sister.”

“Half-sister. Yes.” Dean moves forward to peer out as well, but the smoke’s getting heavy and fogging the plass. Behind him, several people start to cough. “She isn’t under restraint?” he asks Fred.

“No, Cap’n. Not as I could see.”

“I’ll go out. Sam, Jody, cover me.” He goes to the lock and finds both Rufus and Cas with him, Sam and Jody behind them. “Cas, stay here,” he orders. Cas simply looks at him like he doesn’t understand Dean’s words. He considers briefly asking Sam and Jody to restrain him, but a quick glance at Jody’s face as the mercenary examines Cas with undisguised curiosity makes Dean decide against it. He’s not ready to expose to the others how much Cas’ changed. “Rufus.”

“Fred and Aug can cover me,” he says in a voice that suffers no arguments. “I’m tired of this mess. If Bobby’s daughter ain’t on our side, then there’s no point in trusting anyone at Intelligence.”

Dean shrugs and leads them down the ramp, stopping at the bottom and letting Jo and the people with her come to them. Jo, walking with a stiff limp, looks furious as she nears. A woman wearing plain gray fatigues and the badge of Concord Intelligence walks beside her. She has black hair pulled tight in a bun on her head and olive skin. A single red dot marks the center of her forehead. Dean recognizes her immediately.

He speaks under his breath to Rufus. “That’s the woman I met in Riven space.”

Rufus’ eyes narrow as he stares at her. “I’m sure,” he mutters. “It has to be. She was with Naomi when they pulled me in. There’s something about her…”

The party stops some five meters from them.

“Jo. Where’s Victor? What happened to Pinto?”

Jo glances at the woman standing beside her. Her gaze, cold and measuring, focuses on Dean, Rufus and Cas, each in turn. “Victor’s with Pinto on board the other ship. Pinto’s hurt, but receiving care. This is Dumah Domunha. She came along just in time. I don’t know who the hell shot at us, but when I find out…”

“Dumah,” murmurs Dean.

Just as Dumah speaks. “Yes, we have met before.” She draws a pistol from her fatigues. The others in her party—six of them—draw pistols as well.

Jo stares. “What are you doing?” she demands.

“Move away, Roberts,” Dumah snaps. “This doesn’t concern you.” She looks at her briefly, lips twisting. “Although I suppose it does, given your breeding.”

“This violates every covenant of the Concordance. I suggest you—”

“Roberts. I _said_ move aside.”

Dean starts to lift his hand, slowly, to signal Jody.

“We have guns trained on your ship,” Dumah turns her attention back to Dean. “You, your brother, Turner and Angel can come quietly with me, or you and all your companions can die. That’s the choice.”

“We’ll kill you first,” Dean replies, quiet.

“It won’t make any difference to my plans. My people have their orders. Just as long as we’re rid of you. Of your kind.”

“You’re serious,” Jo says. She hasn’t moved away. Now she stares, like these two simple words have left her bereft of further speech.

“Damn.” Rufus turns his head to look at Dean. “I can shoot her first, but she’s right. Those two ships’ll make short work of us. I should’ve known. I _hate_ it when I miscalculate.”

“I don’t expect you miscalculate often, do you, Turner?” Dumah’s voice is entirely unsympathetic, yet not at all gloating. “Or you wouldn’t have survived as long as you have.”

He gives a short, caustic laugh. “In my former line of work, there’s no room for error. I’ve gotten sloppy lately.”

“I don’t understand.” Dean looks from Dumah to Jo to Rufus, seeing some relationship between the three of them—between their separate roles in the League’s history—but he can’t sort it out from the information he has, much less comprehend. “Why do you want to kill us?”

“Kill them!” Again, the two words exhaust Jo’s outrage for the moment. She looks utterly confused.

“You’re a danger to everything we’ve built.”

“ _I’m_? I’m not even from the League.”

“Your kind. What you represent of human nature. Concord was too lenient after the war.”

“So you’ve taken matters into your own hands.” Rufus grins. “I kind of like you, min Domunha. You’re sort of like a bounty hunter, hiring yourself. Carrying out your own justice.”

Her face tightens and she points the pistol at him. “I don’t need your opinion, Turner. You gave up the right to have one long ago with the things you did.”

“Fred,” Rufus speaks into the air. “Lower the gun. It won’t help any. I can’t help it, she’s crazy.”

Her face remains a stiff mask. She seems not to respond at all to this dig. “Roberts. I told you to move aside.”

She finds her voice again. “I won’t.” She walks across the gap to stand beside Dean. “I’ll have you before the tribunal for this.”

Dumah sighs. “No, you won’t. I’m not leaving any witnesses.” She makes a sign and one of the helmeted figures move away. A stream of armed figures emerge from the two ships she controls, fanning out to surround the shuttle.

Dean feels a hand brush his elbow. Cas’ touch. He glances at him but his face is utterly impassive, alien, and Dean can’t read any emotions in it. “How do you justify killing us?”

The mask of Dumah’s face doesn’t alter and Dean starts to wonder if she’s a little crazy, crazier, in her own way, than Cas is in his, because she’s brought it on herself. “Necessity,” Dumah tells him, cold as the vacuum of space. “And the justice denied all your victims.”

Rufus smiles wryly. If he’s scared, he doesn’t show it. “Whatever happened to mercy?” he asks.

“It’s my duty to save society from people like you.” She lifts her head, listening, and they hear it as well. More ships approaching. “Even if you kill me, resisting now, it doesn’t matter. My orders are set. Those are the reinforcements. No trace of your presence here will remain.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Dean sees Rufus shade his lips and mouth the words, ‘play for time.’ Dean gives a little whistle, like he’s trying to act nonchalant under such pressure and hears a faint answering call from the shadowed height of the ramp. Sam and Jody are still standing there, hiding something behind them.

“But there will be traces,” Dean says. “The people on my ship know we came down here. They know what coordinates we came to, who we were to meet. Are you aware Dr. Visyak has just arrived on my ship and will be wanting to know where I am? She has a particular interest in Angel. She’s in charge of his treatment.”

“That was a mistake and anyway, accidents happen.”

The roar of engines heightens.

“Pissing hell,” Rufus speaks suddenly and loudly. “I know who you remind me of. Miriam. She looks like you.”

“You killed her,” Dumah spits with such searing hatred it’s almost like heat boiling off of her. “You bastards.”

“I damned well saved her life more than once. Just like she saved mine. Who the hell are you to judge? How did you know her anyway?”

Dumah hesitates. Three ships skate in over them, bank with breathtaking precision and stop, screaming in midair, then float down to land softly on scarred grass. Looking closely at the ships, Dumah slips abruptly behind the screen of her hirelings. Jo lunges forward, but Dean catches her, his reflexes faster than her intent and trips her. Jo sprawls on the grass as the six men jerk back from her movement and crouch.

The ramp of the forward ship opens.

“Kill them,” Dumah calmly orders.

Dean whistles for Baby. Rufus speaks one guttural, foreign word and Fred and Augustus appear on the ramp, heavily armed, pistols raised. Ash steps out and saunters down the ramp of the newly arrived ship, unconcerned by the scene playing out before him.

“Hold your fire!” snaps Dumah. She turns.

Jo scrambles to her feet. Dean and Rufus stare. Behind, Baby starts to sing:

  
_“Welcome, strangers, to the show_  
_I'm the one who should be lying low_  
_Saw the knives out, turned my back_  
_Heard the train coming, I stay right on that track_  
_In the middle, in the middle, in the middle of a dream_  
_I lost my shirt, I pawned my rings_  
_I've done all the dumb things.”_

  


A second figure appears at the top of the new ship’s ramp. Even at this distance, Dean has no trouble recognizing her.

Beside him, Jo freezes. “Mom,” she breathes and then, like everyone else has vanished and she’s alone, not about to be murdered with the rest of her companions, Jo walks blindly through the ring of armed men, passing Dumah—not giving the slightest sign she knows she’s there—and toward the woman and man waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bad Moon Rising** by _Creedence Clearwater Revival_.  
>  **Dumb Things** by _Paul Kelly_.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd share some catchy line with you here, but Spoilers Sweetie.
> 
> * * *

Jo stops in front of her and Ellen touches her head with her right hand, a benediction. Ash waits at the foot of the ramp grinning up at the display. In comparison, he appears utterly indifferent to the scene playing out in the meadow. Ellen and Ash both appear entirely unimpressed with Dumah, her hirelings, ships and weapons. And with their three sleek, beautiful ships, sitting in all their quiet, deadly splendor on scorched grass why would they?

Dumah simply stands and watches, like this card playing out now obliterates her ability to control her own hand.

“My God,” one of the men with her speaks. “Is that Ellen Harvelle? The privateer?”

“Yes,” Dumah answers. No one makes any further comment.

Ellen and Jo speak briefly, she removes her hand and Jo steps back, to one side, letting Ellen walk down the ramp. Jo follows her, but as Ellen sets out across the grass toward the group gathered at the shuttle, Jo pauses next to her brother. The two simply look at each other a moment. Dean, distracted by Ellen’s serene stroll through the clearing, glances back at the siblings in time to see them grin, exchange a few words and embrace. Then, so perfectly in time only practice of long years and the accident of genetic material can account for it, they turn together—like the movement’s been choreographed—and follow their mother, twin attendants.

The brush of wind through the low grass heightens the silence as the two parties watch Ellen’s progress toward them. She wears a plain blue blouse with black trousers, her blonde hair hangs in a thick braid over her shoulder, except for a few wispy strands at her forehead stirring in the breeze. She doesn’t alter her course to go around Dumah and her hirelings. Rather, they part, letting her pass through their ranks. No one speaks. Ellen doesn’t even look at them, they’re of no interest to her. She stops in front of Dean.

“I have a message for you and Sam,” she tells him.

“You just saved my life.” Dean doesn’t know what else to say.

Ellen gestures for Sam to come forward, not glancing at the group behind her. At Ash and Jo’s approach, Dumah begins to back away, although her people continue to stare alternately at Ellen and her three ships.

“Hold on, min Domunha.” Jo leaves Ash’s side, pushing through the armed men to take hold of Dumah’s arm. “I’m calling you in on charges. You tried to murder us. You went so far as to hire people to aid you. I suppose you had to import these— _citizens_ —from The Pale in order to find people willing to aid you in your crime. I can’t believe a member of Central Intelligence could stoop to such methods. Mom, Ash,” she includes them with a glance, “I ask you to witness this arraignment.”

“They are not citizens,” Dumah says, coldly removing Jo’s hand from her sleeve. “They are not legal witnesses for a citizen’s arrest. Therefore, I will leave now.” She motions to her hirelings and they swiftly drop back toward the two ships they arrived in.

Jo reaches out and grabs Dumah’s arm again. “No! I won’t just stand here and let you leave.”

“How can you stop me, aside from assaulting me yourself? With your background, I would not be surprised if you chose such a method.”

“You say that, after you just tried to murder us? Mom! Surely you’ll support me in this?”

“I’m uninterested in min Domunha’s crimes. You have a tribunal for such cases, I believe, Jo.”

“But without witnesses other than those involved—”

“That’s the choice you made Joanna Beth. In The Pale, we choose other forms of justice.”

In the pause left by Ellen’s words, Dumah shakes off Jo’s hand again. “I am only sorry I failed,” she says, looking first at Jo, but shifting her stare to encompass Sam and Dean. Castiel and Rufus as well, perhaps with more animosity, if that’s possible. “The League would be better off without you.”

Jo steps back, repelled by the vehemence of her hatred. Cas simply stares impassively at her, buffered by his alienness. Rufus’ mouth turns up in his characteristic bitter grin. Sam, having come over when Ellen beckoned him, stands impassively. Dean’s trying to match this woman with the Dumah he met on Nevermore, but her competence has disappeared in the face of her obsession. 

Ellen’s gaze focuses for a brief moment on Dumah and she smiles at her, a tiny ghost of a thing, chilling in its coolness and now it’s Dumah’s turn to step back, retreating. Ellen clasps her hands together lightly as she regards the other woman. “What you resist, you become.”

Dumah flushes with anger. Her hand tightens on her pistol. Dean starts to move, to place himself between Dumah and Ellen. He’s astonished Ash does nothing—until he sees how Ellen’s gaze is weapon enough. Dumah thrusts her pistol into her belt and turns on her heel, striding away toward her ship. She doesn’t look back.

“Stop!” Dean yells. “You still have two of my crew.”

Dumah pauses, half turning back. Her lips turn up in a mockery of a smile. “I will deliver them to Concord, min Smith. You will have to turn yourselves in to recover them.”

“You still hope to trap me.”

“I do not hope to _trap_ you,” Dumah replies. “But if it is all I can accomplish now, then at least the net will serve to hold you so I know where you are. In any case, for you to get them from me now, you will have to fire on us and I believe we not only outnumber you, but possess far superior weaponry and armor.”

“Damn hypocrite,” Jo mutters.

Sam takes a step forward, lifting a hand to signal Jody.

Rufus grabs his arm stopping him. “Don’t try it.”

“She’s got our people. You spoke of loyalty—do you expect us to trust her?”

“What do you think I will do?” Dumah asks scornfully. “I suppose you think I would kill them.”

“You meant to kill us.”

Dumah looks him up and down, but Dean stares her down. “You are different,” Dumah concedes as she turns away, walking to her ship, her back protected by the men she’s hired.

Sam and Dean watch in furious silence, Rufus’ strong grip still a restraint on Sam’s arm, as Dumah’s people board and the two ships take off. As the high roar of their engines fade into the growing twilight, Jo turns back to look at her mother with surprise.

“Do you mean to say you didn’t come here to save us?” she demands.

Ellen seems unmoved by the sudden passion of her question. “That was incidental to my purpose—not that I’m sorry to save you, Jo. But as I said before, I have a message for Sam and Dean Winchester. From your father.”

“Our _father_?” Dean stares. “Our father’s dead.”

Ellen blinks. It’s the only time Dean has ever seen her the slightest bit nonplussed. “Ah,” she says abruptly. “You mistake me. From Bobby Singer.”

“But he’s dead.” Sam repeats.

Ellen smiles, a secret, intimate expression. “Bobby Smith is dead. _My_ Singer is not. They’ve never been wise enough to catch him, hold him and kill him all at the same time. He _is_ the master of the art.”

Sam and Dean are too stunned by this revelation to do anything but parrot the last phrase. “The art?”

“The art of transformation. Didn’t you know?”

They simply gape at her.

“‘A second time was I formed. I have been a blue salmon.’” For a moment Dean doesn’t recognize the voice. “‘I have been a dog; I have been a stag; I have been a roebuck on the mountain; I have been a grain discovered; A hen received me;’”

“Cas!” He tilts his head and briefly, so briefly, _he_ looks at Dean. His lips twitch up in a lazy smile and he blinks and turns his gaze to Ellen. “‘I rested nine nights in her womb a child;’”

Ellen smiles. “‘I have been dead, I have been alive;’” even as she finishes speaking, the weight of an unspoken line hangs heavy between them.

Jody appears on the ramp above, moving past Fred and Augustus. Cas tilts his head to one side, scenting her and in as instant the Castiel who can quote vanishes again.

“Master Smith—Singer—is _alive_?” Dean looks between Cas, Ellen and Sam.

“How can he be alive?” Sam asks, looking from Dean to Cas to Ellen.

“Dad’s alive?” Jo echoes, moving to stand next to Ash, where she finds consolation.

Ash answers. “It was four bullets. One lodged in his brain. When we found him, he was in a coma and the senators couldn’t decide whether to unplug him from their primitive life support and hope it would kill him, or to let him linger and hope he’d eventually do them the favor of dying while they could claim they did everything in their power to save him. I think at least one of them was hoping he’d pull through so they could find out how he’d cracked their computer net.” He grins. “Mother persuaded them to give him into our keeping.”

“But then—” Dean shakes his head, “when we met at Guildford, you had him with you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Dean.” One does not argue with Ellen when she uses that tone of voice. “We didn’t know at the time whether he would live. I wouldn’t have left you with _that_ kind of hope, unresolved and painful. I didn’t know then you’d make the choice to seek out the League. You might never have found out if he’d survived.”

“No you thought it better to keep us in ignorance,” Sam replies, rather bitterly.

“I’m not sure we appreciate _that_ choice.” Dean grumbles.

“Ah—guys,” Rufus speaks, sounding unexpectedly nervous. “This is Ellen Harvelle you’re speaking to.”

Ellen laughs. “Singer’s sons are free to speak to me in any way they see fit. Nevertheless, the choice was mine and I made it.”

“But you came now.” The shock of the news is finally wearing off and Dean feels a sudden, wild exhilaration flood him, a new rush of adrenaline.

“He’s alive. He’s even well, if a little changed. That’s the message I came to deliver. You’ll find him on Terra, in the district named Cymru. I think he’d be pleased to see you both. Now, I have other urgent business to attend to. Ash.”

Ellen turns and without a second glance walks across the meadow to her ship.

“But—” Sam starts and hesitates, seeing it is fruitless to attempt to stop Ellen once she has decided to go.

Ash comes over to Dean and puts his hands on his shoulders. “You’re looking well, brother,” he says, both mocking and sincere. It’s a combination only he could pull off.

“How did you find us? It’s awfully damned convenient of you to show up when you did.”

Ash grins. “Mother always liked a grand entrance and her timing is impeccable. But the fact is, we’ve been following your trail for some weeks. When we hailed your ship, you’d already left and Mother has an appointment in The Pale, so rather than wait we followed you down.”

“Lucky for us,” Sam murmurs.

Ash looks a little embarrassed. “It does rather go with the territory. I’ll see you again, brother. It was nice to meet you Sam.” He turns away, pausing before Jo. “We’ll be in Nebraska for the Holy Days.”

Jo nods. “If I can make it.”

Ash grins and leaves, following his mother’s path across the clearing and up into the ship. They both pause at the top of the ramp and look briefly back. Jo lifts a hand in farewell. Ash, like a mirror, returns the gesture. Ellen merely looks and Dean thinks abruptly that Ellen probably doesn’t pause to look back often.

Then they are gone.

The ramp retracts into the ship and the opening seals. Engines roar and with a shudder Ellen’s ship lifts. The two beside rise at the same time, merging into the darkening sky, lifting up into the expanse of stars.

“Fuck,” swears Dean suddenly. “Why did I listen to you? That woman has Victor and Pinto. How am I supposed to find this place called Cymru?”

“I know where it is,” Rufus says unexpectedly. “I grew up on Terra. In Montana.”

“You can give us coordinates?”

“I can show you on a map. Finding him once you’re there will be your problem.”

“Isn’t this a little premature?” Jo cuts in. “We have to return to Concord immediately to report this.”

“After what just happened? Why would I go to Concord, Jo? One of their officials just tried to murder us and our crew. Jody, get on comm and tell the _Sovereign_ to get ready to depart this system.” Jody nods and ducks inside.

“No.” The objection coming from Rufus surprises Dean. Fred and Augustus have come down the ramp to stand beside him. “She’s right. We have to go.”

“So you can get your damned bounty?” Sam spits.

“No. It’s fair you think that, but I’m giving it up.”

“Convince us.”

“She’s after me, too. Remember that. If that don’t convince you, I give you my word on this.” He reaches under his shirt and pulls out a medallion, identical to the ones they wear. He speaks a few words in Je’jirin to Cas, frowning at Cas’ reply, looking troubled.

“What did he say?”

“He’s really lost his memory,” Rufus says. His voice shakes a little. “I thought he was faking, to cover himself. But he doesn’t know what the medallion means.”

His worry and concern is pervasive. “All right. Let’s say we believe, for now. It’s not enough to make me turn ourselves in.”

Rufus shakes his head. “It’s gone beyond whatever charges they brought against you. _She’s_ the renegade, using her authority to commit assault and attempt murder, calling _us_ throwbacks. I’m going to her superior. I trust Naomi.”

“ _You_ trust her?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” Jo adds, “what other means do you have to get Victor and Pinto back? Or were you planning to leave without them?”

The look Sam turns on Jo is searing. “Don’t even suggest it.”

Dean shrugs. “If Rufus can break Cas out of the highest security prison the League has, then by the Void I can get them back from that woman.”

“No!” exclaim Jo and Rufus at the same moment.

“It’d be a big mistake, Cap’n,” adds Fred from where he stands to one side of Rufus.

“Why?” Sam questions.

“You’d consider use of force?” Jo demands.

Dean laughs. “Why shouldn’t I? After this?”

Rufus shakes his head. “Don’t do it. Not in Concord system. You and your crew’ll end up in prison with no one to spring you. It wouldn’t be fair to them.”

Jo nods agreeing. “Think of your crew.”

“I am thinking of my crew and my ship, which I don’t doubt Concord will find some excuse to take from us. We’re getting Victor and Pinto and we’re heading off to see if this Pale we keep hearing mentioned is more welcoming than the League.”

“Dean! You can’t do that. That place is lawless—every kind of troublemaker and social misfit drifts there—”

“Sounds like we’ll fit right in,” Sam grins.

“Say,” puts in Rufus. “Can you take the boys and me with you?”

“I get it,” Jo tells them. “You’ve seen the worst side of…” She blows air out through her lips. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. This has all been some plot devised by Dumah Domunha. Things don’t normally work this way.” She’s looks frustrated. “Why do you think I choose to live in the League, chose this position?”

“Because you’re the bad twin,” Dean replies caustically.

Jody steps out onto the top of the ramp. “We’ve got incoming, Captain. Four ships.”

“Aug,” Rufus asks. “Take a look.”

Augustus lopes up the ramp.

“Do I let him on?” Jody asks, blocking the entrance.

“Yes,” Dean replies. “I’m coming aboard.”

Jody shrugs and lets him pass, disappearing inside with him.

“Any of you coming on with us, or do you care to take your chances here?” Sam asks as he follows Dean to the bottom of the ramp.

There’s a pause. Jo looks at Rufus, an appeal for support, but Rufus just crosses his arms and looks up the ramp, waiting for Augustus’ assessment. It comes quickly enough. “Yes?” Rufus says to the air. “All right.” He looks at Dean. “Aug says they’re official Intelligence flyers, running under Naomi Guberno’s authority code and she’s onboard herself. We should wait. If we don’t, they’ll chase and bring you in anyway. That ancient tub you’ve got don’t stand a chance against a flyer.”

“Just how are you communicating?” Dean asks.

“With the flyers? By your comm.”

“No, with Augustus.” He lifts his wrist to point at his wrist-comm.

“Implant, of course.” Rufus tells him, sighing and exchanges a look with Jo. “As good a ship as the _Royal Sovereign_ is, she’s old. Aug told me it’s two centuries out of date. You can’t outrun anything in the League, even to get out of system.”

“Naomi’ll see Victor and Pinto returned immediately,” Jo adds persuasively. “I _know_ her, Dean.”

“Don’t matter now,” Fred inserts. “While you been talking, they got here.” He waves his hand at the sky.

Four ships bank in. Two circle. Two land close to where Ellen’s ships put down.

“This better work,” mutters Dean.

“Patience,” Jo replies.

“Our best virtue.” Sam tells her.

The hatch unseals and ramp lowers. Several figures emerge, headed by a blonde-haired woman of indeterminate years. They cross briskly and stop in front of _Sovereign Two_.

“Jo!” The blonde-haired woman looks surprised. “What on earth are you doing here? We’ve gotten a flood of calls about unsanctioned landings and unauthorized fires in this area.”

“Naomi. May I introduce Sam and Dean Winchester? I believe you know—” Jo gestures toward Rufus.

Naomi Guberno smiles a gently wry smile. “Min Turner and I are acquainted, in a fashion. I see you delivered your bounty, min Turner.”

“No, I don’t,” says Rufus roughly. “I waive all rights to it and I won’t cooperate if you try to bring them in now.”

“Indeed.” Naomi raises her eyebrows, looking thoughtful. “Jo? You realize, along with the original charges of aiding and abetting a fugitive who’s a known threat to the lawful peace, the min Winchesters have accumulated additional charges since their arrival in League space. Resisting arrest, illegal possession of historic property, reckless endangerment and now, this morning, failure to appear at an arranged hearing as well as aiding and abetting escape from a maximum security facility. Now this disturbance here on the surface.”

“There’s an explanation,” Jo starts.

“Yes,” Dean speaks directly at Naomi. “There is an explanation, min Guberno. I can give it to you now.”

She turns her attention to Dean. Her eyes shrewd and measuring. Dean thinks while she doesn’t trust them, she also doesn’t distrust them either.

“I think you would be better served, min Winchester, to give it before a convened hearing. I’ve been told you’re claiming salvage of what is believed to be the original _Royal Sovereign_.”

“Yes.”

“Incredible.” She studies the shuttle behind them for a few moments in silence. “That vessel certainly lends credence to your claim. I haven’t seen its like since my days in history class. Well, min Winchester—”

“ _Captain_ Winchester,” Jody speaks in a loud voice from the ramp above.

“Captain.” She blinks, weighing this information and Jody’s weapons, as well. “I think it’d be best if you and Sam travel on my ship and let some of my people escort yours.”

“If we don’t?” he asks, trying to temper the hostility he feels. “If we choose to leave? After one of your own officers attempted to kill us, you’ll understand I’m cautious of trusting you.”

“One of my officers attempted to kill you?” Her surprise doesn’t look feigned—or she’s a very good actor. “This grows more serious. Jo?”

“It’s quite true. She tried to kill me as well. Threatened everyone here. Dumah Domunha.”

Naomi frowns. “I’d be sorry to discover she had. In truth, Captain, I wouldn’t blame you for choosing to simply run. You wouldn’t get far with your vessel, it’s so far out of date. Now. I can reconvene the hearing in two hours. Will you and Sam travel with me, Captain?”

Everyone waits, like this decision on Dean’s part is of vital importance. Even Jo doesn’t intrude with her opinion.

“We will,” he replies, because he knows they really have no choice. “I would request my robot be allowed to come with us, as well as Special Officer min Mills, min Turner and his two companions.”

Naomi merely nods. “That seems reasonable.”

Rufus grins. “Insurance,” he mutters so softly only Dean can hear him. “Wise move.”

Dean reaches to lay a hand on Cas’ arm. “Castiel as well.”

Now Naomi looks briefly startled, but she controls it very well. “He would be coming with us in any case, as an escaped prisoner. He belongs—”

“He belongs with me.” There’s steel in Dean’s voice.

“Dean—” Jo warns.

“You know it’s true. But,” he keeps his eyes focused on Naomi Guberno, “I’ll save the story for the hearing.” Because it gives the illusion he’s in control over the situation instead of it having control of him, he removes his hand from Cas’ arm and waves toward Naomi’s ship. “Shall we go?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> omne pares iuri.
> 
> * * *

“We should’ve run for it,” Jody mutters. “Blasted through anyone who got in our way.”

Dean tilts his chair back and stares out through the clear dome above. Stars, the void of space and sections of Concord’s vast superstructure show through the huge semicircle. When they were shown to the chamber, the dome above had been opaque. Then some switch had been thrown, screens rolled back and stars were revealed. “I don’t think we could’ve made it. Their technology is more advanced than anything we have. They may not choose to use weapons, but they’ve got them. Sometimes it’s better to negotiate.”

Baby, floating just behind his chair, sings.

  
_“People killin' people dyin'_  
_Children hurtin', I hear them cryin'_  
_Could you practice what you preach?_  
_Would you turn the other cheek?”_

  


Dean chuckles. “Yeah. Especially when you’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

“After everything that’s happened, you still trust them? It’s all talk, Dean. Jo claims to be so shocked by our civil war, by all of the Riven’s old fashioned customs, but I don’t see them treating us much differently.”

“I don’t know.” As he considers, Dean lets one hand drop down to rest lightly in Cas’ hair. Its blue strands snake around his fingers. He’s reclining at Dean’s feet, perfectly still, not so much reposing as waiting with a predator’s anticipation of its prey. “Think about the people we’ve run into. Most helped us and Rufus was just doing his job. I think Dumah Domunha’s the exception.”

Sam grins suddenly. “We ought to introduce her to Kuan-yin. They’d get along famously.”

Dean smiles. “They already met, didn’t get along at all. As I remember, Kuan-yin called her a bitch.”

Jody laughs. In the great domed chamber, the sound’s swallowed immediately. The pair of attendants who showed them into the chamber—they don’t quite have the demeanor of guards—glance at them from their stance by one of the doors, look away again, returning to their conversation. The acoustics in the room are exceptionally sensitive. As Sam, Dean and Jody lapse into a brief silence, they can hear the attendants talking.

“—and the shift manager says, ‘Sure, Reggie, I’ll believe the _Roadhouse_ just hailed into system. Maybe you’d like to offer to lease me some cryo berths, too.’ And Reggie says, ‘No, really,’ and by this time about four of the other people on shift have come over to stare at his screen and someone calls up the specs on the overhead and the shift manager turns around to swear at the person who’d done it and looks up—”

The door opposite the attendants opens. First the low harmony of voices speaking casually together spills into the chamber, then a number of people quickly sort themselves out as they take seats in the circle of chairs in which Sam, Dean and Jody are already sitting. Arranged in such a manner—rather like they’re seated at a large table with the table removed—it’s hard for Dean to think of the occasion as a trial. It seems more like a social meeting, everyone comfortable in padded chairs, consoles embedded in each arm. No furniture or barriers to separate those judging from those being judged.

Of the six people sitting in the circle with them, Dean only recognizes Naomi Guberno. The other five are strangers, three women, one a Ridani—like Dunedin’s coordinator Scallop, she’s only half tattooed—and two men. One of the women has very pale skin and bright red hair. Dean can’t help staring at her and he wonders if she dyes it, or if like Charlie, red is its natural color. He flushes when she smiles at him and he looks instead at Naomi.

She nods, acknowledging his look. “Let me introduce the board,” she speaks and goes around the chairs. Naoki Himura, from Administration; Don Stark, from Environmental; Chao, from Services; Dr. Amanda Lee, from Medical (the red-haired woman); and Maritza, from Parliament (the Ridani). Evidently Naomi’s the only representative from Intelligence.

Naomi pauses, after the introductions and looks expectantly at the Ridani woman, who settles her hands in her lap and looks at each member of the circle. “I will be moderating,” Maritza says. “I would like to begin by asking the mins Winchester to explain a bit about their background.”

They’d been expecting this and, as arranged if given the chance, Sam describes their past. He tells them about Riven space, about growing up on Kansas, about Bobby’s academy and his kidnapping by the Kapellans and their subsequent search for him—a pause here while they all look at Castiel and look away. How they had lived on Arcadia and aided Dorothy-Athena and how they joined Jehane’s revolution, following it to its end, for them at least, in Dorothy’s death. Then finally, the decision to take the _Royal Sovereign_ and its crew to find the lost route back to League space.

The tale takes longer to tell than Dean expects. As he watches their audience, he sees signs that some of what they hear shocks them—minute signs, certainly, because all six are clearly trained to listen without judging, but signs nonetheless. An averting of eyes here, a slight flush there, a hand covering a mouth. Dr. Lee, the red-haired woman, even grimaces once when Sam describes Dorothy’s murder. As agreed, Sam doesn’t mention Cas’ activities at all, except he’d traveled with them.

Silence follows their story. Maritza takes notes on her console and, after an interval, coughs slightly to alert the others she’s about to proceed. “That brings us to your activities in League space. I show in my records Intelligence brought a bounty hunter in on the mins Winchester, on the charge of aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive.” All six again look at Castiel. He doesn’t look back at them, rather he looks beyond them, like they don’t really exist for him or are too unimportant to register. “From the record I have here of min de Angelis’ arrest on Agnew Depot, it does appear he’s unstable and potentially violent.”

“My division took that case,” Dr. Lee tells them. “I recall the recommendation was that he was clearly unfit to function in society and was to be removed immediately into psychiatric isolation. Dr. Fuller even got Dr. Visyak to agree to study the case until further notice.”

“He was broken out of his isolation cell from Concord Rehabilitation Center,” Naomi says. “That’s another serious charge levied against the mins Winchester.”

“Under the circumstances, min Guberno,” Dr. Lee says, “I’m surprised he’s being allowed—” now she pauses, glancing almost nervously at Cas, like she fears the statement might precipitate some savagery, “to be present at this hearing.”

“I can vouch for him,” Dean speaks stiffly. “I take full responsibility for his actions.”

Dr. Lee looks at Naomi and then at Maritza, like Dean’s comment holds no force for her. “I realize this is classified information, but under the circumstances I must disclose that min—Angel, as he’s called himself at other times, is a half blood, Human-Je’jiri.”

Naomi’s expression doesn’t change. Dean doubts the information comes as a surprise to her. Everyone else looks shocked.

“Naomi.” Maritza’s tone scolds. “Why isn’t this information included in my file?”

One of the men—Chaos—stands up. “I need better guarantees than a simple vouch to risk myself in this close proximity.”

“Told you,” Jody mutters under her breath.

“Min Chaos. Please.”

Dean surveys his audience, halting his look at Chaos. Dean takes a moment to wonder at the man who has a Ridani name without any tattoos. “I’m his mate. That ought to be enough.”

Dr. Lee flushes bright red. Even Naomi looks surprised, by which Dean assumes he’s caught them all off guard. Perhaps even horrified them. Chaos sits down, but he draws his feet in under his chair like he’s pulling himself as far away from Dean and Cas as possible. “That’s disgusting,” he murmurs, not quietly enough.

“I admit myself intrigued,” says Maritza. “But I must tell you, min Winchester, the penalties for aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive are severe. For good reason. You’re also charged with aiding one Robert Steven Singer.”

Dean taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I’m still not sure what laws they broke to make them fugitives.”

Chaos and Dr. Lee both start to speak at once. Maritza waves them to silence. “As well as the following charges.” She reads off the same charges Naomi read to Sam and Dean in the clearing on Discord. “There are other witnesses relevant to the case. I’ll bring them in now.”

After a pause, the door beside the two attendants opens. For a moment no one appears, although several figures shift and move at the entrance, caught in some turmoil. Raised voices can be heard. A woman, looking rather harried, stepped inside. “Min Maritza,” she pleads, “I’ve tried to tell her this is a closed hearing but—”

Dr. Visyak brushes pass her without a second glance and strides across the chamber to the circle. Both Maritza and Naomi, seeing who she is, stand up and the other four, taking a moment longer to register her identity, swiftly stand as well. She walks directly into the center of the circle, not deigning to shake hands with anyone.

“Where is my patient?” she demands, turns and sees him. “Cas!” Her face softens an instant—but only an instant. Seeing he’s safe, or safe enough for now, under Dean’s hand, she turns back to face Naomi. “I have, to my great distress, discovered some serious abuses in the treatment of this patient by Concord Intelligence. A patient, I might add, whose condition is precarious but at the moment stable. Who was, when I last treated him some fifty years ago, recovering from a complete breakdown. I now have reason to believe he was lured into work for which he wasn’t suited and it eventually contributed to a subsequent breakdown, and a later imprisonment in Concord prison wasn’t recorded and he was subjected to torture.”

“Torture!” Chaos gasps.

“Surely not,” protests Dr. Lee. “I’ve been with Medical for thirty years now—”

“Perhaps no one in Medical at the time was aware depriving a person of Je’jiri heritage of all sensory perception… Mother help us, I cannot possibly imagine what they were trying to accomplish! In order, I must presume, either to gain information he was unwilling to provide or else simply to deprive him of his sanity.”

“Dr. Visyak!” Naomi’s voice is cool. Dean suspects she’s a poor woman to cross. “Are you willing to stand by such accusations?”

“Quite willing.” Dr. Visyak rakes her audience with a scathing look, then sweeps a stray lock of hair into its proper place in its tight coil on her head and sits down beside Dean after Sam shifts a seat sideways for her. Cas looks up at her with interest and speaks a single word in Je’jirin. She replies, briefly and returns her attention to Naomi. “I do not intend to let Intelligence get its claws into him again. I will use my _very_ substantial influence to make sure it doesn’t.”

This pronouncement leaves Naomi speechless. Maritza coughs again, capturing the group’s attention, but as the circle settles back to business, the figures left forgotten at the door enter quietly into the chamber.

“Victor!” Dean stands up. Sam and Jody stand as well.

Cas lifts his head, scents and comes up gracefully and swiftly to his feet. “Pinto!”

“Excuse me,” Dean says automatically to Maritza and he walks out of the circle of chairs, across the white marbled floor to meet Victor and Pinto halfway. Victor’s limping. Pinto’s seated in a maglev chair.

“Thank the Void,” Dean says under his breath as he comes up to them and can see they’re a little battered but in one piece. He hugs first Victor and then, leaning down slightly, Pinto. The air around the edges of the chair vibrate, a soft tickle on Dean’s skin, fading as he pulls back from Pinto, suddenly aware of Cas standing directly behind him.

Jody pushes past him and embraces Pinto as well, her keen fighter’s instinct places her between Cas and the only person in the room he’s focused on. Pinto seems oblivious to the fuss. Victor flushes a little, watching Jody embrace the pilot, flushes a little more when she moves away and grins with relief—or perhaps of something else—when she hugs him tightly as well.

“Cas,” Dean speaks in an undertone as he moves to take Jody’s place between the two men, “go back and sit with Dr. Visyak.”

He cocks his head to one side, taking in Dean’s words. After a moment he turns crisply and paces smoothly back into the circle to sink down between Dr. Visyak’s chair and the one Dean vacated.

Victor blinks. “What’s that all about?” he asks quietly.

“Never mind,” Sam tells him. “Are you both all right?”

Pinto winces as Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Victor. That last shot—I don’t even remember it. I don’t know how he got me out.”

“I carried you,” Victor tells them all. He glances at his right—artificial—arm. “You weren’t very heavy. We’re all right, Sam. Or at least, not much worse for wear. What about you?” He looks beyond them toward the tribunal.

“Oh, we just started, you haven’t missed much. Where, is—?” Dean steps past Victor, toward the door. “Rufus. Fred. Augustus. I’m happy to see you.” He offers his hand to the bounty hunter.

“I’ll bet you are,” Rufus says, shaking his hand without hesitation. Dean supposes he’s bathed—at any rate, his clothes are clean, if rumpled, but his face still has the same stubbled, nonshaven appearance. In contrast, Fred and Augustus seem neatly groomed, like they’ve taken some pains to comb down their hair.

Augustus still wears his shoulder harness, but the only instrument Dean sees attached to it is his thin comm-slate. Augustus shakes his hand with some reserve, but Fred pumps it enthusiastically.

“Don’t get a chance to do this much,” he growled. “Nice place, huh? Where do we get to sit?”

Dean grins, waving toward Naomi. “You’d better ask our host. I think the main chairs are filling up. If you’ll excuse me,” he waits for the last arrivals, “Jo and—” Pauses and when he speaks again, his voice is positively hostile. “Min Domunha. I’m pleased to see you here.”

Dumah simply walks past him like Dean doesn’t exist. In a poor and unconvincing imitation of Ellen.

“At least she’s being made to appear,” Dean says to Jo.

She looks grim. “I’ll see her brought to account for her actions. I’m only sorry Mom wouldn’t witness—or even let Ash—” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“Have you tried to reach them again? Perhaps a recorded message?” Sam asks.

“They’ve already left the system. She only came to tell you two about Dad. At least we learned he’s not dead.”

Dean has to ask, now she’s mentioned the subject. “Do you know where Cymru is?”

“Of course.” But she doesn’t elaborate, moving instead to the chairs. Dean follows her and when he sits he finds the circle full except for an empty chair Rufus forsook, seeing as there’s not room enough for the Ardakians to sit as well. A rank of chairs behind them hold Victor and Pinto in his elevated chair. Jo sits beside Jody, Dumah next to Naomi. She arranges her dress in the continued silence as everyone takes their places.

Maritza surveys the new arrivals with an expression of dry amusement on her half-patterned face. “While you settle yourselves in and sort yourselves out,” she speaks, “I’ll bring up the rest of the file.”

While the Ridani woman scrolls through more notes, Dean leans to speak softly to Dr. Visyak. “How did you get here? I thought you would’ve been on the _Sovereign_ by now.”

Dr. Visyak looks at Dean, reproving. Her lips thin. “Once I arrived, a young woman, Paisley, apprised me of developments. I had the skiff that took me over bring me back here.” Her disapproval fairly radiates around the circle.

“Now.” Maritza folds her hands in her lap. “Since all the principals are here, perhaps we can continue. Without interruption. This list of charges is quite extensive. Most of them seem adequately substantiated. Intent, of course, we can only deduce from this hearing now and it seems clear to me we’re dealing with two people whose customary, socialized behavior is rather different from our own.”

“If this story about—” Chaos checks his console. “Riven space is true.”

“Have you reason to doubt it?” Maritza asks.

“We have logs to prove it,” Dean says without heat. “I’ve never heard of logs being faked.”

“That’s true,” Chaos concedes. He frowns and glances pass Dean. “But if that’s a still functional and bonded Chevrolet, there’s no telling what you might have accomplished.”

_Dean,_ Baby sings, _are they questioning my honesty?_

_No, Baby,_ he whistles. _They’re praising your abilities._ Baby finishes Dean’s phrase with a gorgeous and expressively brief, coda. Dean turns back to face Maritza. “We’re accused of aiding and abetting a fugitive. Two fugitives. I won’t deny we—as you phrase it—aided and abetted them—”

“You see,” Dumah vehemently interrupts. “He does _not_ deny it.”

“Let him finish, Dumah,” Naomi tells her curtly.

Dean waits a moment, to see if Dumah’s going to continue. But it’s Sam who does. “Since as citizens of Riven space, we weren’t even aware of the existence of League space, except as the place our ancestors came from, I don’t understand how you can charge us under your laws for traveling with people whose fugitive status we couldn’t have been cognizant of and whose government had no jurisdiction over us in the first place.”

“Ignorance is always the excuse of the deviant.”

“Dumah,” warns Naomi.

Jo stands up. “If ignorance is their excuse, min Domunha, I would like to know what yours is. If the honorables here are not aware of it, I would like to state for the record what occurred on Discord.”

“Jo,” Naomi speaks softly. “Sit down.”

“I refuse to let her prejudice the tribunal!”

“How can I prejudice them?” Dumah asks with false sweetness. “The facts prejudice themselves and lead to only one conclusion—these people are unfit to function in society.”

“ _You’re_ unfit—”

“Jo!” Naomi silences her.

“If you will excuse me again,” Maritza speaks placidly. “I believe this hearing was convened to focus specifically on the charges laid out here against the mins Winchester. A separate hearing must be called to deal with these other charges.”

“Unsubstantiated charges,” Dumah states.

“Only because I couldn’t get outside witnesses to—”

“Please, min Roberts,” Maritza interrupts more forcefully. “We _will_ proceed with the matter at hand.”

Jo sits down, mouth sour, both fists clenched and placed on her thighs.

“Thank you,” Dean says drily and he exchanges a discreet smile with Maritza. Naomi can be heard to sigh as she looks at the two other representatives of Intelligence, who have subsided to glaring at each other in silence.

“So you admit to the charges,” Dr. Lee says. “I’d think that makes intent pretty clear. I did read the dossier on this case before I came. My recommendation would be for the maximum penalty.”

“I concur,” Chaos says and Don Stark nods as well.

“Perhaps you would enlighten us as to what the penalty is,” cuts in Sam.

Jody leans forward. “You’re not going to just take this, are you?” she demands of Dean. “They’d already made up their minds before they got here.” Dean lifts his hand and Jody sits back, crossing her arms over her chest, glowering as only a dangerous mercenary can.

“Min Guberno?”

Naomi sighs and brings up information on her console. “A prison term, to be commuted with public works or some service to the public as agreed on by the tribunal.”

“If you imprison us, you have my crew and ship on your hands. I’m responsible for them. For that matter, they only came here because of me. I hope you’re taking that into account.”

“There is some legal question,” Maritza says, “about the status of the _Royal Sovereign_. There’s some sentiment your claim on it as salvage is legal, but again, it’s government property, no matter how old so the claim may not hold.”

“Our ship is all we have. How else are we expected to live?”

“How do you expect to make a living with an outmoded vessel?” Maritza asks.

“I expect,” Dumah speaks scornfully, “as soon as they’re free they’ll abscond with it to The Pale and make a living as a privateers.”

“We can’t allow a historic vessel like the _Royal Sovereign_ to be used in such a manner,” Chaos interjects, looking worried. “I recommend it be removed to government bond and the crew be given the same standard educational and living vouchers as any citizen, to start fresh.”

“No!” Dean stands up, Sam mirroring. “I refuse to give up the _Sovereign_. We’ll fight you every step of the way if you try to take it from us. Legally, for as long as we can. Physically, if we have to. I refuse to be a criminal just because it’s more convenient for you to treat us as such. We came a long way to get here. We’ve brought Riven space into contact with the League. You should be thanking us, since you can send missionaries there now—not that they’ll thank you for it.” Dean pauses to draw in a breath.

Sam doesn’t let anyone interrupt however. “We appreciate you conduct yourselves in a civilized manner here. In the Riven, they’d have shot us out of hand—and our crew, to be safe. I see that shocks some of you. Maybe you could look at finding a way for us to utilize what skills we have. One which would minimize the bad habits we’ve brought from the Riven.”

“We can’t make exceptions on sentencing,” Maritza states. “Once guilt is found. It’s one of the first principles of our government—that all shall be sentenced equally.”

“But imprisonment can be traded for public service,” Naomi reminds them. “It’s always been accepted that good works are a better rehabilitator than a cell.”

Beside Dean, Dr. Visyak stirs. “By the tone of your voice, I take it you have something in mind. I would warn you again, I’m here to look out for the interests of my patient and it’s my firm belief he will only recover if he’s released into the custody of min Dean Winchester, with proper oversight, of course.”

“I hear you, Dr. Visyak,” Naomi says. She glances around the circle, seeing she has everyone’s attention. Dean looks around as well and once he’s reassured to find the atmosphere is not uniformly hostile to their cause, he sits down, Sam mirroring him. “It occurred to me,” Naomi continues, “your skills might be well utilized by Intelligence.”

“By _Intelligence_?” Jo exclaims.

Dean exchanges glances with Sam and Jody. Jody shrugs, pulling a wry face silently saying, ‘I told you so’.

“In what fashion?” Sam asks, at Dean’s look.

It doesn’t ease Dean’s suspicions when Naomi hesitates, glancing once again around the circle, gauging their reactions, before she continues. “It’s not escaped our notice, in Intelligence, that The Pale is rather outside our provenance.”

“As it’s meant to be,” Maritza states. “Rather like a safety valve.”

“For the worst elements,” Dumah interjects snidely. “Those who can’t function in normal society.”

“Nevertheless,” Naomi continues, shooting her a withering glance, “we’re at a disadvantage due to our lack of good intelligence.” She takes a breath, Dean thinks, to create a pause. “Partly we lack good information on Kapellan movements. Partly we lack information on the movements of the various organizations and groups who inhabit and govern—”

“If you call that government,” Dumah mutters.

“—those people who live there,” Naomi finishes, her tone showing her annoyance. “You and your brother have broken League law, Captain. If you want to live here, as a citizen of League space, you have to accept the consequences. But it doesn’t serve anyone’s purpose to simply imprison you and the _Royal Sovereign_ , with a little refitting, will continue to be an excellent and space worthy vessel.”

She pauses and in the silence everyone hears Fred say, in what is doubtless meant to be a whisper, “How come they take so long to get to the point when you’re not going to like what they’re saying?”

“It’s diplomacy, Fred,” Rufus says, not bothering to whisper.

Naomi doesn’t react to this interplay. “Intelligence will second your claim on the _Royal Sovereign_ , Captain and we will recommend Angel, currently under the custody of both Intelligence and Medical for psychiatric reasons, be released into _your_ custody. If you and Sam agree to work for us. We need a ship, working in The Pale under the guise of a privateer, to bring us intelligence of the movements of the Kapellans and of the privateers currently active there.”

Beyond the circle, Rufus coughs into his hand.

“You want us to be spies,” Dean says, meeting Naomi’s eyes, “as ransom for Cas and for both the ship and the freedom of our crew.”

“I think that’s exaggerating the situation. You can serve us well there. We haven’t previously found anyone else who met enough of the correct specifications for the job who could.”

Rufus coughs again.

“Or, I suppose,” Sam replies, “who would. I’m curious to know what the rest of the tribunal thinks of this.”

“I would agree,” Chaos states. Don and Naoki nod.

“I disagree,” Dr. Lee speaks. “I think it’s just throwing fuel on the fire. I think it’s a bad idea.”

“Prison is the only safe place for these people.” Dumah turns her head to stare at Dean, but after a moment, when Dean doesn’t flinch from her hard gaze, she looks away. “This will only encourage them.”

Dr. Visyak lifts a hand to her hair. “I was not aware you were a member of the tribunal, min Domunha, but since you are offering unsolicited and unofficial opinions, I’ll add mine as well, in of course, a purely professional capacity. My patient needs continuity and peace and a stable environment to recover effectively. Such a course of action would not benefit him. But then, min Guberno, I suspect this solution derives more from your needs than theirs.”

“Be that as it may,” Naomi says, “it’s the solution being offered. Min Maritza?”

“I don’t like it, but I’ll not, at this time, recommend against it. In any case, by four votes to one, we have a majority accepting. Captain do you and your brother agree?”

Dean looks around the circle. At the six members of the tribunal, who are he supposes, being as objective as anyone can be with a thousand prejudices, offset by their hope and confidence in human goodness. At Dumah Domunha, whose hostility isn’t masked at all, her hatred aligns her more surely with those throwbacks she despises than any actions Sam and Dean have ever done. At Jo, who looks furious but is restraining herself with unusual discipline. To Jody, whose skepticism shows clearly in the way she unconsciously holds her right hand at her belt where her gun should be holstered. Dr. Visyak, simply waits with faint disdain, secure in her position as a respected scientist. Cas sitting with alien stillness at his feet, uncannily patient, like such human ways of doing things have nothing to do with him.

Behind him, Baby sings, too quietly for Dean to make out words. Beyond the circle, Fred’s grooming himself with a heavy hand and Augustus is, as usual, calculating on his slate. Rufus is slumped down in his seat, head resting on the back of the seat, eyes shut, like he’s asleep. Victor sits forward, elbows on his knees, listening intently and he meets Dean’s eyes and shrugs. Pinto, beside him, sighs and looks bored. Dean smiles, wondering what Paisley would make of this great domed chamber.

Lastly he looks to Sam, who’s made his own visual survey of the room. His face is carefully blank, no one else looking at Sam would have any idea what he is thinking. Dean knows his face perfectly reflects his brother’s. Their conversation is swift, held in the depths of their eyes. Sam inclines his head giving Dean the floor and Dean looks back at Maritza.

“We’ll think about it,” he says.

“You don’t think they’ll really just let us go,” Jody hisses, but Dean lays a hand on her sleeve and frowning she stops speaking.

“You’ll _think_ about it?” Naomi echoes, looking surprised.

Maritza chuckles. “Are you negotiating with us? I’m not sure you’re in a position to.”

“Maybe we’d prefer prison,” Sam says.

“I know some of those privateers.” Dean continues “I’m not sure we want to spy on them.”

“It might be dangerous.” Sam continues.

Dr. Visyak chuckles.

“And we have a piece of unfinished business we’d like to complete first.” Dean and Sam are swapping back and forth like they’ve shared more than a brief glance.

“We’d like to go to Terra.”

“On holiday?” Dumah asks with a sneer.

“We’d like to visit our father, whom we thought was dead,” Sam states coolly. “Which reminds me, min Maritza. How do I file charges for attempted murder and aggravated assault—or whatever you call it here—against Dumah Domunha? I’d like to do that as well, before we go.”

“If you’ll let us go,” Dean adds with just the right hint of question in his voice.

“Impossible,” Dumah scoffs. “They’re not even citizens of the League.”

“Dumah,” Naomi warns.

“Everyone has access to the courts,” Maritza states. “You ought to know that.”

“Even those who willfully abuse the systems we have so carefully set up to keep peace and harmony—”

“Min Domunha.” Without raising her voice, Maritza cuts off Dumah’s tirade as effectively as if she’d shouted. “I have been more than generous in letting you air your position, but you have abused the privilege once too often. I don’t want to have to ask you to leave. Now. If the min Winchesters choose to file charges, then they will be resolved in a separate tribunal.”

“I’m filing charges of my own,” Jo adds. She smiles suddenly, looking sly and very like her father. “Also, I’d like to point out the min Winchesters have not been allowed an advocate at this tribunal. That’s grounds for a rehearing, I believe. I’m surprised you overlooked it.”

The silence following this remark is eloquent. All six members of the tribunal look at each other, like they’re expecting someone else to take responsibility for this oversight.

Naomi shakes her head finally. “I should have refused to mentor you, Jo. You’ve gotten slippery.”

Maritza shrugs her shoulders. “The min Winchesters are, indeed, due a rehearing. I didn’t confirm an advocate would be present. Under the circumstances, I don’t think it unreasonable for them to be allowed a specified and finite amount of time to think over this offer before a new hearing is convened. A parole to Terra…”

“How can we be assured they’ll come back?” demands Dr. Lee.

“I’ll go with them,” Jo says. “I’ll act as their parole officer, post myself as their bail.”

“Do you trust them?” Dumah uses the question as an attack.

“ _I_ trust them,” Naomi states. “Anyone here is welcome to reference min Roberts’ record and see it’s exemplary. In addition, I can add an escort of several other Intelligence officers as insurance.”

“I’d like to take a few of our people with us,” Dean tells them. “But perhaps you can add additional officers to cover them as well. We’ll leave the _Royal Sovereign_ and the rest of our crew—”

“As hostages,” Jody mutters.

“—in good faith.”

“I see no reason not to honor the min Winchesters’ request. It’ll give them time to consider our offer and to consult with a qualified advocate, who will, I’m sure, apprise them of the advisability of accepting it.” Naomi folds her hands in her lap and Dean realizes she’s feeling smug, secure they have no choice but to do as she wishes.

“I don’t like it,” Dr. Lee makes her disagreement known again, but the other three all look at Maritza for guidance who merely nods.

“Four weeks,” Maritza states. “Twelve days run either way on a fast yacht and four to conduct your business and, mins Winchester, if you break this parole and attempt to escape, your vessel and crew will be impounded and you will face a mandatory minimum thirty year prison sentence each once we catch you again. Without your own ship, we _will_ catch you before you can reach The Pale.”

“We don’t abandon our own,” Dean states. He and Sam stand.

“I do have one question,” Naoki states. It’s the first time she’s spoken. “Before you go. Several of the engineers in my section asked me to ask you. How did you break min Angelis out of Concord prison? It’s built to be escape proof.”

“I didn’t—” Dean stops, glancing over the tribunal’s heads at Rufus and the boys. Fred pulls his lips back to expose his teeth, the Ardakian grimace he uses as a smile. Augustus is obviously not listening. Rufus’ eyes are shut and he looks very tired.

“Dean,” Jo grabs his attention. “You don’t have to answer any questions without an advocate present. I’m surprised they didn’t inform you of this in the first place.”

Jody mouths an ‘oh’, clearly surprised at this privilege. “Then, if you’ll forgive me, min Himura, I’ll wait to answer the question. May we be excused?”

The members of the tribunal stand, one by one. Dr. Lee’s still frowning. Dumah doesn’t stand. She looks enraged, but contained.

“We will reconvene in four weeks,” Maritza states. “Captain, I’d be pleased to escort you and your brother to your ship and then to a secure yacht.”

“Certainly,” Dean agrees graciously, knowing they have no choice. But in the stir created as the other members of the tribunal leave, dragging Dumah in their wake, Dean turns to Jo. “Why didn’t you mention the advocate earlier?” he asks in an undertone. “You could have saved us this entire hearing.”

Jo lifts her hands, palms up and shrugs. “Dean, you’re a trained martial artist. You know you never reveal your best move until you’ve found out your opponent’s whole repertoire. We’re one up on them now. _And_ I know a good advocate who’ll take advantage of it.”

“You would,” Sam grins.

“Anyway,” she adds, “it’d be a terrible mistake to agree to spy on Mom. It’s been tried. It didn’t end happily. She’s not forgiving, even to family.” Her smile is enigmatic and rueful.

“No, I don’t imagine she is,” agrees Dean diplomatically.

“We’ll have to devise some other public service,” Sam muses.

“Fuck. Do you have any ideas?” Dean looks at Jo.

“Yes, in fact—” But she stops as Maritza and Naomi come up to them.

“You were saying?” Naomi asks.

“In fact,” Jo says, “it’s at the original Concordance of New Era fifty-eight that the position of advocate was developed as a more positive tool for conflict resolution than what was used before.”

“Which was?”

Both Jo and Naomi smile. “Lawyers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Where Is The Love** by _The Black Eyed Peas_.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paisley's green grass land.
> 
> * * *

As the train clacks and rolls in its rhythmic clatter along the track, Paisley looks out the plass window at the lush green countryside. No, Victor corrects himself, it’s not plass, it’s the far more fragile substance called glass. He’s surprised it’s still used in League space after the remarkable technology he’s seen, but then, he’s surprised at the antiquated train in which they’re riding. Surely the engineers in League space can design a more streamlined, modern railcar rather than this clearly ancient model—or built to look ancient—which runs with far more noise along slatted tracks than he thinks necessary or charming. But after everything he’s seen, after Dunedin, Concord and Terra orbit, the brisk efficiency of Heathrow Terminal, where they landed, he has to assume they want these trains to be exactly as they are. Quaint, old fashioned and slow.

He looks back at Paisley. Her expression is one of reverence, like what she sees brings back some long forgotten and exalted memory to her. Jody moves on the seat beside him and he turns his head to see she’s also looking at Paisley. Jody notices his look and winks at him, sharing his amusement at the awe on Paisley’s face. Next to Paisley, Owen’s engrossed in making the tabletop—a blank surface which when manipulated properly is an entire comm-screen—display the interlacing threads of Terra’s transportation web.

“Too bad Pinto isn’t here,” Jody speaks in a low voice, nodding at the view outside the window. “It’d remind him of home.”

“It be so _green_ ,” breathes Paisley. She doesn’t even look at her seatmates, merely relapses into her enraptured gaze of the steep sloped hills and meager scattering of trees clumping at the edges of rock-walled pastures. A silver stream parallels them and under the lee of a hill a village stands, dark squat houses looking millennia old. In a low, singsong voice, Paisley starts to speak words, an old song.

  
_“Far come they tae ya green grass land_  
_Morning bright-o day_  
_Where Dancer lead them hey come ho_  
_Sunlight comes in morning.”_

  


“Maybe not,” Jody adds, like she’s answering her own question. “Pinto always hated those old tattoo songs. Anyway, there aren’t many mountains in Central. Nothing as old as those buildings, or so small. Size is an important consideration in impressing one’s acquaintances.” She says in a knowing way. “He probably wouldn’t want to be reminded of it.” She frowns suddenly, her eyes focusing not on the scene outside but on some vision farther away.

Victor sighs. Undoubtedly, the memory of Central brought her around to thinking of Alex. He lowers his eyes to stare morosely at the multicolored network of lines on the tabletop. From the seats on the other side of the aisle, he can hear Jo arguing with Missouri Moseley, the advocate she hired to plead their cause. He glances over to see Dean, no longer bothering to hide his smile, watching his half-sister with amusement clear on his features.

“There has to be some way to get out of the service requirement.”

“Jo. We’ve gone over this point ten thousand times.” To her credit, Missouri has the same look of amusement on her face Dean does. “Service or prison. I can’t change that. What I can do is force them to accept a change of terms in the service. But we have to have an alternative we can present to the tribunal.”

“It just infuriates me she simply walked out of the hearing smug as you please, walked away from her misdeeds, from everything she did to us, like she was the holiest person present.”

“Which she obviously thinks she is,” Dean says. “Jo, we’ve gone over _this point_ —if I may borrow a phrase— _twenty_ thousand times. Min Moseley filed the charges. We can’t dwell on it. We have to move forward.”

Baby sings softly from the seat next to Dean, but Victor can’t quite make out the tune. He thinks it sounds familiar.

“And she may well walk free without any charges sticking,” adds min Moseley. Jo groans. “However much you may deplore it, that’s the way the system works.”

“However much I’d like to pin her ass to the wall, Jo, you reminded me that can’t be my first concern. I need a job the _Sovereign_ and my crew can do,” Dean tells her. “We can’t—don’t want to—go back to Riven space. We’d be fools to take up Naomi’s offer and Sam and I don’t want to work for Intelligence anyway. So we have to find something legal they’ll settle for.”

“Good luck,” mutters Jo, obviously still dwelling on Dumah’s sins.

It occurs to Victor that Dean’s advice is good. Dwelling on things never got a person anywhere. So he coughs slightly to gear himself up and returns his attention to Jody. She’s still frowning, staring out the window but not seeing the landscape beyond. “Pinto wouldn’t have been interested in scenery anyway,” Victor says. “He’s like me—so used to space this is more a curiosity than anything else and he certainly wouldn’t have traded a look at Terra for being in on the _Sovereign’s_ refit. He and the Mule could hardly wait to get their hands on the new nav-pilot linkup.”

For an instant, Jody looks at him like he’s as alien to her as the Je’jiri. Then she grins and her usual cheerful cynicism sparks from her expression once again. “You’re right, of course. But I’m glad you came along, even if you’d rather have stayed for the refit. Those three—” she waves toward Dean, Jo and Missouri, “haven’t stopped since we left Concord and I’ve got no patience for legal matters.” Victor coughs to hide his smile. “It always seems more efficient to shoot the bastards. Oh well. Paisley’s been gaping like an idiot ever since we came into orbit around Terra, so she’s no company and Benny…” Several seats back, strangers in the seats opposite them, are Sam and Benny. He’s frowning with mute sourness at the comm-slate he’d been given, presumably reading something. Sam, like Paisley, is staring out the window. “I don’t know why Dean brought him.”

“Probably thinks it’d do him good to be free of the ship for a while. He’s been out of sorts.”

“Benny is terminally out of sorts and poor Sam, having to sit with him, instead of up here with us. Why the hell do you suppose Dean’d think Benny’d feel better traveling in close company with Cas all this way, I ask you? Because to be frank, Victor,” and she drops the level of her voice until he has to lean closer to hear her, “every time I look at Cas, I _still_ feel spooked.”

Reflexively, they glance over their shoulders to the four seats and table directly behind Dean. Despite the train being crowded, even with passengers filtering through in ones and twos at each stop as they look for seats, the two aisle seats beside Castiel and Dr. Visyak remain empty. Castiel sits staring at Dean. His blue hair marks him as surely as a beacon would, but it’s the entire attitude of his bearing, the cast of his shoulders, the way he tilts his head, sniffing rather than looking as people pass by, the unhuman way his mouth is set, that keeps anyone from sitting down. Dr. Visyak seems oblivious to her surroundings as she studies the writing on her slate, occasionally glancing up to ask Castiel a question. Sometimes he replies. Not often.

The tabletop shifts color suddenly and both of them jump and then glance about self-consciously. Owen’s changed the map. He’s now examining a grid of the island’s transport web.

“King’s Cross,” he says. “What’s _king_ mean?”

Victor looks at Jody and they both shrug. “I don’t know,” Jody replies. “What is it?”

“Terminal we left from, in that city. _London_.” His face brightens and he looks up at his mother. “I know. Old Nanny Baker used to sing me that song, ‘London bridge is falling down.’ Do you remember her? I used to think it was a thing, like a stress factor. Do you think it was that city we come through?”

“ _Came_ through,” Jody corrects automatically. “I don’t see why not. Old songs like that must’ve come from somewhere.”

“Nanny Baker?” Victor asks.

“Mildred Baker. She was Comms on the ship we crewed before the _Painted Lady_. Damn my eyes, but I’d swear she was about one hundred years old. She knew the strangest things. Said she’d learnt them from her grand’mam, who learnt them from her grand’mam who was a crippled yeoman from the wreck of the _Bitter Tidings_ , the old highroad ship Central blew up when it tried to run Riven space.”

“Did you believe her?”

“No. I thought she was crazy. Now I’m not so sure.” She waves a hand to encompass the landscape, the train and the many other occupants of the carriage, dressed in the unfamiliar fashions of the League and conversing in the unfamiliar cadences of League Standard.

“Never believed you’d be setting foot on Terra itself?” Victor asks, grinning.

But before Jody can reply, Paisley turns her head smoothly and fixes them with a look almost uncomfortable in its intensity. “Tirra-li. We hae found ya green grass land.” Her Ridani accent, which softened over the course of their travels, has come back doubly strong. She starts to chant in a low, singsong voice:

  
_“We’ll come one day tae green grass land_  
_Morning bright-o day_  
_When Jehane he dance us down ya way_  
_Sun shine bright-o morning.”_

  


Victor and Jody regard each other in silence. Paisley regards them like some great revelation has suddenly come to her and she expects it to be as obvious to them as it is to her. A low chime heralds the conductor’s voice over the carriage intercom embedded in the tabletop console.

“Llanymddyfri.”

Jo stands. “We get off here,” she says.

Dean stands as well, glancing around to mark each of his people. “Let’s go.”

They pull their bags down from the overhead racks and get off the train. Benny trails behind, standing at the edge of the group, Sam beside him as the train pulls away from the tiny station. Jo surveys the ticket booth and turnstile leading to a quiet street, along which ranks of two-story drab houses stand against one another. Two people walk through the turnstile. The man sitting in the ticket booth stares at them.

“This is the town he was born in,” Jo says to Dean. “It’s my best bet as to where he’d go to ground.”

“But how do we find him?”

Jo grins. “Obviously you’re not a native. First we get a place to stay and stow our gear, then we go down to the pub and gossip with the locals. They’ll know about him if he’s here, and I can’t imagine he’d go anywhere else in Cymru.”

“Lead on.” Dean hoists his duffle over one shoulder and waits.

The pub proves to also be the inn and, with some doubling up and the relinquishing of their room by two of the children of the house, the innkeeper finds enough room for the entire party. Victor finds himself in a room with Sam and Benny. Benny tosses his bag at the foot of his bed and lays down on his stomach, face turned to stare out the many paned window. Glass again, Victor notes, whorled and so thick it gives a slight distortion to the view outside.

From their room they can see the pub’s courtyard and a gate leading to a broad circle of green lawn in the center of which is a pond. As Victor looks, he sees Dean and Baby walk outside, followed by Dr. Visyak and Castiel. They sit down at one of the tables and a young woman comes out after them and wipes the table off, then stands talking. She looks once at Castiel, her eyes widen and after that she pointedly doesn’t look at him again.

“Don’t see many Je’jiri on Terra, do they?” Victor comments and Sam, who’d been looking outside as well, turns.

“Not any more. Jo said there were some incidents…” He trails off, apparently she hadn’t said anything more. “We’d better go down.” He throws his duffle down on his bed and leaves.

“Are you coming, Benny?” Victor asks.

“No.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No.”

Victor sighs and follows Sam out. If Sam isn’t bothered leaving Benny behind in the room, Victor isn’t going to be either. Jody has arrived outside before him and she grins and waves him over to the table where she sits with Owen and Missouri. Jo’s pulled a chair up to Dean’s table. “Where’s Paisley?” Victor asks as he sits down.

“She pitched her bag on the top bunk and headed straight out the door. Look.” She directs his gaze to the gate and then he sees Paisley out on the green, staring alternately at the grass, the pond, the steep hills surrounding the village and the sky.

“It’s unusually good weather,” Missouri tells them. “It usually rains here this time of year. I’d suggest the ale and the ploughman’s lunch.”

“What’s _ploughman_?” Owen asks.

Under cover of the Missouri’s explanation, Victor leans closer to Jody. She rests her chin on her fist and tilts closer to him as well, so close it takes his breath away for an instant and he forgets what he’s going to say. She smiles and he flushes, abruptly aware she knows quite well what affect her proximity is having on him.

“Benny’s sulking,” he says, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind, or at least the only thing coming to mind he can say in such a public place.

“And Paisley is blissing. They ought to trade a little and both come back toward center. I’m worried about her. It isn’t like her to be this quiet.”

“Knowing Paisley, she won’t be for long.” He pauses as a young woman comes, takes their orders and retreats. Several people have gathered in the courtyard now, mostly, Victor suspects, to stare at the newcomers. They politely keep their attention primarily on Baby, who floats in her usual spot above and behind Dean’s shoulder.

Jody gets a considering look on her face. “Last night Dr. Visyak asked me a second time about Owen’s hair.”

“About his hair?”

“About the color of his hair. She asked me first if anyone in my family has hair his color and when I said no—” she chuckles and fluffs up her dark brown hair, “then she asked about his father…” She trails off and for a moment she merely looks thoughtful. “The funny thing is, this time she asked me questions about Jehane—not just about his looks, but how he acts, what he’s like. His personality.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her he’s a dangerous, manipulative, self-absorbed bastard,” Jody speaks with rather more heat than is typical for her. “She didn’t seem surprised. I wonder why.”

“Who knows? I’m only glad she’s here to guard Castiel when Dean can’t be with him. What’s going to happen when he’s let loose to wander around the _Sovereign_ by himself?”

“If any of us get to wander around the _Sovereign_. Anyway, what makes you think Dean will let him?”

“It’s clear to me he’s bringing him along, if he and Sam get out of the prison sentence.”

“Let’s concentrate on keeping them out of prison Victor and worry about Cas when we have to. Look at it this way, maybe the Je’jiri will take an interest in him.”

“Maybe they will. I hadn’t thought of that.” He contemplates the Je’jiri for a moment and shakes his head. “Poor Benny. No wonder he’s sulking.”

Jody laughs. “You’re too compassionate, Victor. Like Pinto, I don’t have much sympathy left for Benny.” She pauses as the young woman returns, handing round mugs of dark ale and a smaller mug of milk for Owen, and waits as they all sample it. Jody’s eyes widen, rather like the young woman’s had when she’d first seen Castiel. “This is good! I could get used to this.”

The young woman laughs and heads back to the kitchen.

“You’ve made yourself welcome now,” Missouri says, smiling. “They make their own ale here and you just complimented it.”

“Have you been here before?” Victor asks, suddenly suspicious.

Min Moseley chuckles. She can hold her own with Jo at her worst, but in Victor’s few encounters with her away from Jo, Sam and Dean, Victor’s decided she’s actually very sweet. “No,” she answers, “but there’s a placard in the window saying the ale is brewed on the premises.”

“No,” Dean says from the other table, raising his voice in exasperation. “Jo, you simply refuse to understand. We _can’t_ go back. Even if we wanted to.”

“If we wanted to, we wouldn’t have left there in the first place,” Sam continues, “risked taking a lost road to a place we weren’t entirely sure existed.”

Castiel straightens, taking in air in the way Victor now recognizes as Je’jiri scenting. He’s begun to suspect they can smell more subtle fragrances than odor.

“It’s the obvious choice,” Jo starts and Castiel turns his predator’s gaze on Jo as Dean starts to look angry.

Jody brushes her fingers against the back of Victor’s hand and he jerks, startled. “Firefight,” she says. “You’d better go back them up. She’ll listen to you.”

“Will she?” Missouri asks with interest. “You’d be the first one.”

“Excuse me,” Victor says and he gets up quickly, picking his chair up him, crossing to the other table. “Mind if I sit down?” he asks, putting his chair down and sitting between Castiel and Jo before anyone can reply. Castiel tilts his head to one side then the other, scenting him. Victor stiffens slightly, until Castiel marks him as acceptable and sits back in his chair.

The tension around the table eases noticeably. Dr. Visyak taps on her comm-slate. The action irritates Victor. Could she never stop taking notes? He feels like every moment surrounding Cas is simply one long psychiatric observation and his sympathy for the man progresses in that instant from nervous pity to a sudden urge to see that he _does_ recover, so he might be spared this indignity.

“Victor,” Sam asks, “can you please explain to Jo, again, it’s not a good idea for us to join the League’s expedition to Riven space?”

“But it’d be a perfectly acceptable service to exchange for the one Naomi proposes,” Jo goes on, ignoring Dean’s mood in her enthusiasm for her idea. “You know the way, or at least have run it and you know the area and the customs—”

“And a current government,” Dean interrupts, “who would cheerfully cut our throats at the first opportunity. Who would certainly not trust any emissary claiming us as companions or guides. In any case, how can you guarantee the person in charge of the expedition would want us along?”

This point evidently hasn’t occurred to Jo, because she looks abruptly surprised. “Oh,” she says, “didn’t I tell you?” She pauses expectantly.

“No.”

“I asked Naomi for the position and she agreed to support my application. It’s already been sent before Diplomatic Council. She expects it’ll be approved without any delays. I ought to know when we return to Concord.”

Victor gapes at her. Sam and Dean do as well, only they recover faster—which is one reason why, Victor supposes, they have through the course of their adventures taken on the role of Captain and First Officer. Dean laughs. “Why in the Seven Hells would you want to go to Riven space?” he asks. “No, you don’t need to answer. I already know.”

Jo draws herself up, looking offended. “I don’t need to sit here and be insulted.”

“But I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t need to. I know what you’ll say. Everyone says it. She’s going because she can’t help but want to tell them the correct way to do things. She can’t help wanting to enlighten them because she thinks she’s always right.”

Victor has to hide his smile behind one hand, because it’s exactly what he was thinking and he sees now that Jo is more sensitive to criticism than he’d previously thought.

Dean chuckles. “But isn’t that why?”

“Helping people to live better than they are,” she replies stiffly, “is not an impulse to be laughed at.”

“I’m not laughing at the impulse, Jo,” Dean assures her.

“No. You’re laughing at me.” She relaxes abruptly and smiles. “You remind me of Ash in some ways.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t. I still think—” she pauses as the young woman brings their food and starts over. “I was one of the people who encouraged Naomi to push for the refit of the _Royal Sovereign_ to start immediately.”

“I was wondering how that happened. I got the impression from Naomi she assumed we were going to accept the offer she made,” Sam says.

“I might have led her to believe you would accept—” Jo coughs.

“You lied to her! Jo, you can’t imagine how proud I am of you. You’re the only person I know who can bend all her own rules without seeming hypocritical,” Dean grins.

“In any case,” she continues, ignoring his comment, “ _I_ was hoping all along I could use the _Sovereign_ as the lead ship in the expedition to Riven space. It’d be ready by the time the expedition can be put together.”

“I said no, Jo.” Dean’s firm and Sam’s expression tells the same story.

“But,” Jo replies, so placidly Victor is immediately suspicious. “If it’s the only alternative to spying in The Pale, you may not have any choice.”

Dean’s answer is to begin eating. Cas watches him a moment, scenting something Victor can’t detect and then favors the plate set in front of him with detached interest. He tries a bit of cheese, then settles back and closes his eyes without eating anything else. The young woman deftly brings Victor’s plate over from the other table and, since everyone else has started, he eats as well. Paisley wanders in from the green and sits at Jody’s table.

As they finish up, a short black-haired man whom Victor recognizes as the innkeeper strolls out into the courtyard and, after a fractional pause by the locals drinking at a nearby table, comes over to stand beside Dean.

“Everything’s to your liking, I hope?” he asks. His Standard is particularly difficult to understand, peculiarly melodious.

“Yes,” Dean assures him. “Yes it is. It’s real nice here.”

“Ah,” he agrees. “It is that. What brings you to these parts?”

He glances at Jo, but she simply nods. “My siblings and I,” he indicates both Sam and Jo, “came here looking for our father.”

“Why would your father be here, of all places?” the innkeeper asks, but Victor can see he’s intrigued.

“He grew up here. Many years back. Name of—” He hesitates, a bare moment. “Robert Steven Singer. He told us he was headed back here some time past, but we were all far out near The Pale and we lost touch. We were wondering if he’s settled in here in the past six months.”

The innkeeper’s face creases with a broad smile. “That’d be Bobby Singer, wouldn’t it? I went to school with him. Good lad and a fine tenor. It were a sad thing when his folks had to move to England. Yes, indeed. He’s taken the old Tyson place while she’s out by Doncaster on a mining job. Just a crofter’s cottage, you understand, but it’s a fair enough place to write poetry in while he’s waiting for a lease to come up in the area.”

Dean’s a little pale. Sam asks, “How would we get there?”

The innkeeper shakes his head. “Oh, there’s no use going now, is there? He’s down to Lanolin these three days for the local Eisteddfod.” He pauses, seeing their expressions. “But don’t worry, he’s sure to be back tomorrow by midday I’d say. I’ll tell you the way in the morning. It’s just up back on Mwdwl Eithin two kilometers north. A light walk for a morning. You’ll see.”

“Thank you,” Dean replies with apparent calm. “We’ll leave in the morning then.” The innkeeper excuses himself to tend to a local calling for ale and, presumably, some information about these strangers. Victor watches Dean. He’s slightly flushed and he hoists his mug of ale with an unsteady hand. “I can’t believe he’s still alive,” he says in a low voice. “That we’ll see him. Tomorrow.”

At first no one replies. Then Jo stands up. “I think I’ll go take a walk,” she says.

“You haven’t finished your food,” Victor points out.

“I’m not hungry,” she replies and she leaves, heading out the gate into the green and quickly disappearing from view.

Dean sets down his mug and turns to stare after her. “Maybe I’d better go talk to her.”

“Do you think so?” Victor asks. “I get the impression she’d like to be alone. I’ve never met your father but from what I’ve heard, it seems to me he might not be the easiest person to meet again after so long. Not from what Jo’s said.”

“Ash once referred to him as a tyrant.” Dean shakes his head and Victor catches Sam doing the same. “I can’t imagine how anyone could see him as a tyrant. Or be troubled about meeting him.”

Dr. Visyak looks up from her food—she eats with the same efficiency she studies Cas and surveys her company with a professional’s eye. “It’s long been known with a father, an heir is privileged.”

Victor chuckles. “Is that true, Sam?”

“I don’t know. Jo and I haven’t compared notes much. I think I’ll look around the village this afternoon. Care to join me?”

Victor shrugs. “Might as well. I don’t know what else to do here. It’s a lot different from anywhere else I’ve spent time. What do you expect to see?”

Sam grins. “I’m not sure. But I can’t get out of the habit of checking my ground, in case of—” he glances at Dr. Visyak, “an emergency.”

“Old habits die hard,” Dr. Visyak says coolly, but Victor gets the distinct impression that Dr. Visyak knows quite well what Sam meant.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In search of a moment.
> 
> * * *

In this place, his senses are overwhelmed with the strength of _je’humari_ existence. It’s possible to keep focus only by letting Dean’s scent alone crowd against him, like a barrier to the rest.

Angel stands in darkness at the gate leading from the courtyard into the green. Behind him, a few stragglers from early closing still drink and the innkeeper stands in the door to the pub and mildly scolds them for not yet leaving. Of those he travels with, most are still sitting outside enjoying the last fingers of ale. It’s easy to distinguish them in the midst of unfamiliar smells. Jody, sharp-scented and trustworthy, a toughness tempered with laughter; Owen, bright as a healthy child should be; Victor, a mixture of dependability and humor which matches well with Jody, although he seems unaware of it or of the strength underpinning him, one others rely on, without him or them being aware of it.

Jo, a turbulent mixture of honor, loyalty and guilt; and Dr. Visyak, whose scent has a dry, cutting edge he doesn’t much like, but which he trusts. Baby smells of metal and machinery, but underlying it is a second scent, ancient and depthless, a trail of scent, had he the leisure to follow it, that could lead him into the heart of creation.

Sam, strong and resilient. When the brothers are together their scents merge into a solid bank of dependability, but separately Sam has a lightness Dean lacks. It’s not that Sam doesn’t smell of responsibility, it just doesn’t weigh as heavily on him as it does Dean.

And _Dean_. He frowns. He can tell, at this moment, Dean’s thinking of him. It shades his essence with doubt. He stirs and turns and catches _his_ scent. Takes a step before that other part says, from a place he doesn’t understand, _No, you may not kill him._ He looks up, staring, until he finds the dark window, its shutters open and the figure, barely outlined against a weak light, standing there, looking down. Benny’s scent is laced with anger and self-pity and shored up by a good nature buried under accumulated sourness. As Angel watches, it arcs with longing and cramped, repressed desire.

Angel flushes with the heat of the hunt. He touches his tongue to his lips like he can taste the blood of his prey—and with a sharp yank of alien will, stops himself again. It’s not Dean who Benny is staring at.

For an instant, Angel is amazed he’s missed her entrance into the courtyard. Her fragrance is shot through with the brilliance of virtue, generosity and compassion. Rich with the perfume of idealism. It takes him a moment to _see_ her, but everyone else is staring as she walks up to their tables.

She’s unbound her hair. The myriad braids, beaded and hanging to her waist, are gone—vanished into a cloud of light brown hair.

“Paisley!” It takes him a moment to sort out the voice. It’s Jody. “What happened to your hair?”

Paisley brushes at her hair. “I took ya binding off,” she states in a clear voice. “Be it came to me, min, as here in ya green grass land, ya Ridanis have no reason to bind their hair. I mean to keep it unbound, for ya reminder. Min Roberts,” She regards Jody with her steady, sure gaze. “I mean to go over ya way with you, whether or not ya _Sovereign_ goes. If Jehane be not ya real Jehane, if he have no mind to bring ya Ridanis up where they mun go, then it be _my_ trial to help them come here. To ya League. For ya green grass land be here. And it be wrong o’ me if I do not tell them they can come. For they can come here, can’t they?”

“Well, yes.” Jo sounds, not uncertain, at least, but surprised.

“Paisley.” Dean stands up. Angel can smell the sudden flush of sorrow in him. “You’re leaving us.”

Paisley’s own regret echoes Dean’s sadness. “Yes, min. Be it you know well enough it hurts me sore to leave you, but you will understand that I mun go, if I can.”

“Yes,” Dean replies, soft. “I understand.”

“I’ll encourage min Roberts to take you.” Sam’s scent too is awash with sadness. “You’ll take her, won’t you, Jo?”

Under such threat, Jo can only shrug. “Of course. I still think you both—” She hesitates under Dean’s glare. “Never mind. Whatever happens, I’ll need a representative who knows Riven space.”

“I think it’s a shame,” Jody says.

“How can you say so, min Mills? I mun do my duty.”

“No, not that. Of course you have to go. I just think it’s a shame about the braids. I always thought they were so pretty.”

Paisley hesitates. For the first time, Angel scents something else about her, a bouquet he hasn’t ever been aware she possesses—vanity. “Sure and mayhap after ya people have been sent home, mayhap then, it wouldna’ be so wrong o’ me to weave ya braids back in.” She thinks about this a moment. “For then it would be ya choice, not ya binding.” This apparently settles something within her and she sits down at the table next to Jo, launching into an interrogation of Jo’s intent, plans and methods in regard to the expedition to Riven space.

Up above, a shutter closes and Angel catches the faintest whiff of salt from tears on the breeze.

Jody laughs and stands. “Care to go for a walk, Dean? I don’t think I need to endure this. Off to bed with you, Owen.”

“But—”

“It’s an order, young man.”

“I’ll go up with him,” Victor says quickly.

“No, why don’t you come with us,” Jody replies. “Owen?”

The boy murmurs his agreement and leaves. Angel slips into the shadow of a line of hedge as Jody, Dean and Victor come out to the gate.

“Damn my eyes,” Jody swears. “But I should’ve guessed she’d take it upon herself to save the whole damn Ridani population.”

“It’s funny,” Dean muses. “When Sam and I first met her, she told us an old Ridani story about how they got out to Riven space and how they would be saved by Jehane. All the Ridanis think that Alexander Jehane is _that_ Jehane. But he just took the name because it served him to do so. Now I wonder if Paisley won’t be the real Jehane.”

“I wish her luck,” Victor says.

“Yes.” Dean lifts his head to stare up at the stars. “She’s a lot like Dorothy. She’s going to need it.” He pauses and looks around and Angel feels Dean’s attention center to him again, doubt, fierce protectiveness and troubled desire. “Where’d Cas go? Do either of you see him?”

“No.”

“No. But he can’t have gone far, Dean. I think Visyak has an electronic leash on him. She always seems to know where he is.”

“I think I’ll just check,” Dean replies. His doubt mingles with worry and the faintest hint of anger as he walks away from Jody and Victor.

“Where do you think he went?” Victor asks.

“Who the hell knows,” Jody replies. “I’ve never seen a person as changed as he is. I don’t know if he can be cured.”

The dark bulk of Victor’s shoulders move in a shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be. Void knows he’s gone through more than we can imagine. Dr. Visyak let a few things slip on the trip out here. Not much, but enough.”

“I didn’t know you felt so much sympathy for him.”

“Don’t you?”

Angel can feel the warmth of her grin as a fragrance on the air. “Of course I do. I like him too much to give up on him now. I just—”

“You just?”

“I wish it wasn’t so hard on Dean. Can’t you feel the edge in him, all the time, since Cas came back? Like he’s not sure if he’s glad he found him. He can’t be what Dean expected. Not now. Hell, even now I’ve gotten to trust the pack of Je’jiri on the _Sovereign_ , I don’t really feel completely comfortable around them. Did you see the way everyone stares at him? He’s got to notice, he’s not blind. I know Dean does.”

“What can he do? If he’s mated to him—” Victor stops, like the subject he’s encroaching on is intimate and the scent of his love for Jody suddenly overwhelms the common night smells.

“Which reminds me,” Jody speaks casually, but not casually at all. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Victor.”

“Yes?” He smells hopeful, scared, nervous and excited all at once.

Jody laughs, sure of herself, without being disagreeable about it. “You know damn well, Victor. I can’t decide whether your restraint does you credit or not.”

There’s a silence. A train whistle sounds in the far distance, like it’s calling for its mate. Victor’s breathing changes. Angel takes in a sharp breath, feeling what sparks between them. Victor’s reply isn’t spoken, but had it been shouted it would’ve been less jarring to Angel. He slips several steps back until he comes up against the stone wall of the courtyard, the hard, cold stone pressing into his back.

The two forms, Jody and Victor, mesh together for a long, drawn out moment, then abruptly, separate.

“Did you hear something?” Jody asks, sounding almost nervous, then she chuckles. “I’m as jumpy as a novice,” she murmurs. “Maybe I can talk Paisley into taking Owen into Dr. Visyak’s room.”

“Jody…”

“You don’t want to?”

“You know damn well—” Victor bites off the last word.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you lose your temper before.”

“I’m not losing my _temper_ damn it, Jody.” There’s another silence. “Oh, all right,” he says at last. “Go and ask Paisley. She of all people will understand.”

“I suppose she will,” Jody replies. Her scent, as she walks away, Victor fast at her heels, is brazen.

The last stragglers from the pub filter away into the night, singing some ancient tune in perfect four-part harmony. Sam cuts short Paisley and Jo’s conversation and herds them inside. As the door shuts behind them Angel hears them begin to talk again. The exhalation of desire coming from Jody and Victor fades too, as they go inside. The innkeeper sings in a soft, gorgeous baritone as he wipes off the tables, his song falters then starts up again when Baby joins in. The light click of Dr. Visyak’s fingers on her comm-slate run as an undertone to their singing.

The aroma of moisture on the grass, the perfume of closed flowers, the piercing sweetness of cool air, all caress him. Out across the green, pond water laps against the shore, clean and fresh. Even the stone against his back has a musty, pleasant smell reminding him of cool, rock shelters he’d slept in with his mother on spring nights when he was a child.

Where did Dean go? He lifts his chin and tilts his head from one side to the other, scenting, catches his trail on the end of a breeze and goes hunting.

In this place, he’s an easy quarry. He corners Dean by the pond, where he stands on the thin white shoreline, staring at the stars as they ripple on the wind-stirred surface. His bouquet is a mixture of constancy, quickness and the quiet confidence of a master of the art, but underneath it, wearing away, always at his being, a core of restlessness leading him to be never satisfied entirely with what he has and what he is. Dean’s head lifts to stare upward at the night sky, not as dark as space, nor as brilliant with stars. Breeze pulls at the strands of his hair. He’s not at peace, but for the moment content and yet still questioning, wondering, what he can do next. Dean’s not thinking of him at all. Suddenly his scent changes again and he turns.

“Cas.” Dean regards him with astonishment. His fragrance mixes and alters, blending as he watches him, confusion, pity, fear and desire the sweeter for being touched by wonder. “The moon,” Dean says at last. “It’s rising behind you.”

He doesn’t turn to look at it. He would far rather look at Dean. But some dim memory stirs within him. Like a voice heard through muffled layers of cloth, or from down a far distance, he hears words and it sounds rather like his own voice, yet not his voice at all. But he repeats some of the words, even though he’s not sure what they mean. “‘His face will make the heavens so beautiful that the world will fall in love with the night and forget about the garish sun.’” The pungent smell of garbage being turned out into a trash can distracts him and he falters.

“The wheel of the night,” Dean says, his voice so low it almost seems not to come from him at all. “The honor that patterns you. You once told me you look your best under the kinnas wheel.” He hesitates and Cas feels from him the unexpected perfume of tenderness. Dean takes two steps closer to him and slips his hand up to cradle the back of his neck. “I’d forgotten.”

Cas leans into him and lifts his head, as is the honored custom, brushing Dean’s cheek with his so Dean can mark his scent as he marks Dean’s. Something, the movement perhaps, causes Dean to hang back a moment, uncertain, then he breaths in sharply and embraces him without reservation.

From across the green, he feels Dr. Visyak sigh, get up and leave. Only Baby, the last presence left in the courtyard, remains, quiet, her metallic scent woven with a counterpoint of joy.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family doesn't end with blood.
> 
> * * *

Light wakes Dean. Thin lines of brightness mark the bed, the blankets and the long lines of Cas’ body in an alternating pattern of light and dark. He lays in bed, a little irate at waking so early and a little amused in retrospect. It would never have occurred to him to close the blinds, because the idea of a sun rising above the horizon in the morning isn’t one which comes habitually to Dean. A programmed hour in which lights are turned up from low to high, signaling the beginning of the most active shift, perhaps. It’s the life he knows best.

Sometime after he’d fallen asleep Baby came into the room. Now she rises from the chair on which she’d settled for the night and sings, softly,

  
_“Mama told me when I was young_  
_Come sit beside me, my only son_  
_And listen closely to what I say_  
_And if you do this it'll help you some sunny day”_

  
_“Oh, take your time, don't live too fast_  
_Troubles will come and they will pass_  
_You'll find a man and you'll find love_  
_And don't forget, son, there is someone up above”_

  
_“And be a simple kind of man_  
_Oh, be something you love and understand_  
_Dean be a simple kind of man_  
_Oh, won't you do this for me, son, if you can”_

  


Dean slips out of bed, pulls on a shirt and, padding to the window, he pushes aside the blinds. The shutters are open and he can see down into the courtyard and out onto the green. Someone’s awake before him. Paisley, staring at the sun’s line as it rises above the low, stark hills. A rattle sounds from the kitchen—the innkeeper and his help, stirring now to prepare for the day.

Dean smiles. Unfastening the window, he eases it open and leans out over the casement. Like she’s heard the movement, Paisley turns, looks up and waves. Dean waves back. After a moment, he puts on the rest of his clothes and heads downstairs to stand beside Paisley at the gate, watching the sun rise. Baby follows him down. They say nothing for a long while, content in silence. Baby singing her music, solemn and proud.

“You don’t blame me for it?” Paisley asks at last. “It be you, min Winchester, you and Sam, I be sorriest to leave. If it weren’t for you, I would never have come here, have seen such things, to know what I mun do. What I _could_ do.”

“Then I’m glad we brought you, Paisley. It’s a far cry from Kansas Station, though, isn’t it?”

Paisley nods, troubled to unusual silence by the thought of just how far it is.

“I’ll make sure Jo understands you’re the official emissary. I don’t want any misunderstandings about that. Especially when you get back to Riven space. You have to make sure she understands Riven space—Jehane—”

“I reckon I know what manner o’ man Jehane be, min. I will tell min Roberts, as often as I may. It be up to her to believe me. Certain she’d believe you better. Be you ya fair sure you won’t be coming?”

“No, we won’t be. It’s not the right direction for the rest of us to go in, I don’t think.”

“But ya service. Ya tribunal. You don’t mean to be ya spy, surely? What else can ya _Sovereign_ do?”

Dean closes his hands about the cold iron of the gate. Dew wets his palms. “I’m beginning to have an idea. I think it’ll be too reasonable for the tribunal to refuse and too valuable. I just need to do a little more research.”

There’s another bit of silence. Then Paisley squirms. “But min, what _be_ it?” she demands.

Dean chuckles. “What was the _Royal Sovereign_ originally meant for, Paisley?”

Paisley looks at him, mystified. “It be ya highroad ship, min. Ya exploratory—” She stops.

“Ya exploratory ship,” Dean finishes for her. “Exactly.”

Behind, the innkeeper emerges from the kitchen. “Ah, you’re up, are you? Will you be having something hot to drink, tea, or perhaps coffee?” While he serves them, he sings as well, a simple melody Baby harmonizes with.

Later, the others come down, some separately, like Owen and some, Dean notes with interest, together.

“Good morning, Jody. Victor.” He regards them speculatively. Victor flushes and goes to sit down with Jo at a different table. Jody merely grins and eases herself into the seat next to Dean. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“Quite pleased,” Jody replies and orders her breakfast.

Cas emerges from the inn, casts about and focuses on Dean. Dr. Visyak walks out directly behind him, but she lets him sit down at the table with Dean, Paisley and Jody and goes herself to sit next to the others. Cas, sitting, looks a little puzzled and the edge on him, the clean alien presence he’s possessed so strongly, seems blurred, like a smudged picture concealing something else underneath. He glances at Jody and Paisley, narrows his eyes looking puzzled, like he’s trying to figure something out about them.

“Mornin’ Cas,” Jody says, curious.

“Good morning,” he says without a trace of accent and lapses back into perplexed silence.

“Do you want us to come up with you today?” Jody asks Dean, breaking the uneasy quiet settling around the table.

“No. I think just Baby, Sam and I, and Jo.” He hesitates. “And Cas.”

“And Dr. Visyak?” Jody asks, jesting slightly.

“No.” Dean examines Cas intently. His attention, surprisingly, has wandered from Dean and he’s looking around the courtyard like he’s trying to remember where he is. “I don’t think Dr. Visyak, this time.”

“Where is Sam?” Cas asks unexpectedly.

Dean has a quick look around, surprised he hasn’t noticed Sam missing.

“Min Winchester took this morning early for ya run.” Paisley answers just as Sam rounds the corner of a far building coming into sight. They all watch him with interest as he stops at the gate to stretch.

  


.oOo.

  


After Sam’s shower, their meal and getting the innkeeper’s directions. Dean finds himself walking along a wide dirt path with Jo beside him, Baby at his shoulder and Sam and Cas trailing behind. The day is fair and fine, or so he’s deduced from the warmth of the air and the clear sky. Jo’s too quiet, too tense, to notice. The aria Baby sings has a light, playful melody making the long climb easy, if one walks in step. They pass no traffic, although once in the distance he hears the sounds of animals and sees white backs heading up another slope, a darker beast at their heels. A slight figure, a boy, perhaps, lags behind, stick in one hand, a small brown bag slung over the opposite shoulder. He sees them and waves, and although he’s too distant to make out his face, Dean waves back and Jo, too polite to be entirely distracted, waves as well.

This brief human contact cheers her. A few trees decorate the slopes, but mostly it’s grass and the occasional crooked line of tumbled stone wall. The road narrows and branches and, true to the innkeeper’s directions, they head right down a defile and come round an outcropping of stone into a tiny nook of a valley at the base of which sits a cottage. Smoke rises from its chimney. The whole scene looks so utterly primitive to Dean, at first he doesn’t realize it’s a dwelling. But as they near, a small brown animal rushes out of the building, making the most horrendous noise and a figure appears in the doorway.

Dean would recognize Bobby anywhere, even at such a range.

“Rumsfeld! Rumsfeld, come here boy.” His voice, without precisely shouting, carries the distance easily.

The beating of Dean’s heart quickens and he feels his breath grow shallow and fast, like he’s climbing to some great height far too swiftly. Jo becomes, if anything, more silent. Sam hurries forward to take up position on his other side. Baby ceases singing.

The animal turns tail and trots back to the cottage to stand beside Bobby on the stoop. He simply watches as they near, not moving and yet Dean knows he’ll recognize him and Sam as easily as he recognizes Bobby. Soon Dean can see his face. He looks older, without looking aged and there’s a few streaks of silver in his beard. Bobby’s face is composed—far more composed than Dean’s, he imagines, because a grin keeps trying to break out onto his lips and Dean keeps forcing it back, trying to keep with the dignity of the situation and the quiet serenity of the valley. Perhaps Bobby’s left such ties behind, preferring, after everything, to start his life utterly anew. Dean feels a sudden misgiving. He shouldn’t have come.

At two meters Dean stops, as does everyone else with him. Bobby looks at each of them in turn, the steady, calm look Dean knows and loves so well.

“Well, Sam, Dean,” he says, in exactly the same tone he always used in the academy. Then he does smile and Dean lets out the breath he’s forgotten he was holding. “It’s good to see you boys.” He walks forward and the three embrace. After a moment, Bobby steps back and turns to regard his daughter. “Well, Jo,” he says in exactly the tone of voice he’d reserved for those students he thought needed encouragement. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes,” Jo says. Neither of them move toward each other.

Bobby turns to look at Cas and Dean thinks Bobby looks uncomfortable. “Dean, who is this? I didn’t know you were traveling with Je’jiri—” He sounds almost disapproving, he falters and blinks. “Angel?”

Cas’ examining the covered pens behind the cottage, which are dank with the odor of some animal that’s recently left them. He doesn’t respond to Bobby’s question, or even appears to have heard it, let alone realize it’s meant for him.

“He’s been ill,” Dean says.

“So I see.” Bobby regards him a moment longer, his expression unreadable before waving toward the door. “Will you come in?”

“I’ll wait outside,” Jo says quickly. A look passes between her and Bobby that’s incomprehensible to Dean.

“As you wish,” Bobby replies, quite reserved. “What about Castiel?” he asks Dean.

“Who knows? We’ll just have to see.” Bobby turns and Sam and Dean follow him inside, Baby trails after them. Despite Dean’s expectations, the interior is neat and clean, well lit by its four windows. It boasts only a bed, a table and chair and a portable cookery.

Bobby nods towards Baby. “I see you still have your Chevrolet, Dean.”

“Yes,” he agrees, grinning. “I could scarcely do without her.”

_Dean,_ Baby sings, in a sharp key, _I wasn’t aware the lack of my presence was something you considered._

“It isn’t, Baby. It’s something I devoutly wish will never come to pass.”

Her cadence, in reply, is brief and ascending.

“Tea?” Bobby asks.

“Yes.” Dean paces the room, measuring it out as he’s measured all the cells on their long journey to find him.

Bobby chuckles, watching them from his station at the cookery. “You can sit down, you idjits.”

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, but Dean remains standing. He stops in the middle of the room and stares at Bobby, shaking his head. “We thought you were dead.”

He blinks. “Didn’t I tell you once, it’s terribly—”

“—boring being dead?” Sam finishes with him.

Dean finally sits down. Bobby puts a kettle on the burner. “What are you doing?”

“Here, you only make tea in the traditional way. It’d be heresy to do anything else. This’ll take a few minutes.” He crosses to sit on the bed. “Actually,” he says after a pause, “it _was_ rather dull. Evidently I was in a coma. I had a bullet in my brain. It’s a very humbling thought, when you come to know of it.”

“When did you find out?” Sam asks.

“Much later. I was on Ellen’s ship by that time, under the very best medical care, but it was still a difficult recovery.”

“You should’ve been dead.” Dean swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Yes, I suppose I should’ve been. But I’ve always hated doing what other people expect of me.”

“Is that why you came here?” From Sam.

He considers the question gravely. “No. Perhaps, in the end, this was the likeliest place for me to have gone to ground.”

“Concord Intelligence is looking for you, you know.” The brothers have fallen back into their normal routine of trading a conversation back and forth between them.

Bobby smiles. “They’re looking for all of us, all who are left. They don’t know to leave well enough alone. We won’t trouble them.”

“They think you will. _We’ve_ had trouble.”

Bobby shakes his head. On the burner, the kettle starts to whistle and Baby, not to be outdone, adds a harmonic tone. Bobby stands. “That’s a feint if I’ve ever seen one. I’ll take it. How _did_ the two of you come to be here?”

While he pours hot water into a pot and out again, filling it up over a scattering of dried leaves, then pouring the contents of the pot into ceramic mugs, they tell him.

“Well,” Bobby says when they finish. He drinks the last of his tea, gets up and pours them all a second mugful. “Well.” Then he nods and Dean knows, in that moment, they’ll never receive a greater compliment. They sit in mutual, easy silence while he and Sam savor it.

A dark form appears in the open door, tall and slender, head tilting once from side to side. “Dean?”

Bobby shifts on the bed.

“Come in, Cas,” Dean says. He enters, pausing to scent again and moves with a predator’s grace across to Dean, sinking to sit at his feet. He looks at Bobby, unblinking, then up at Dean. Bobby gives a slight cough. For a fleeting instant, Dean has the insane thought he’s nervous, but he dismisses it.

“What have you been doing here?” Sam asks Bobby. “Are you going to stay? The innkeeper said you were waiting for a lease.”

“For the time, yes, I think I’ll stay. After I came out of the coma, I started hearing words, so like any good Welshman, I returned home to discover whether I was mad or a poet, since I wasn’t dead.”

The confession takes them rather by surprise and they share a quick look. Yet, Dean realizes, this Bobby’s really no different from the Bobby they’d known before. “Which is it?” he asks.

The answer comes from an unexpected source. “‘Never is there in Gwyddno’s weir, anything as good as tonight.’”

Bobby laughs. “Welcome back, Castiel. Although I’ll confess to you Dean, I’m still not sure. But I have a good deal of time to discover which it is. ‘There is a fine fortress on the shore of the sea. Graciously there his desire is granted to everyone.’” He pauses. “I’m still struggling to remember the language. It’s been a very long time since I spoke it last.”

“Which language?” Sam’s interest perks.

“The one spoken here and the one spoken by poets. You’ve told me what’s been happening with you. But neither of you have told me what you intend to do.” He hesitates. “I don’t recommend taking up their offer. It’s bad enough to have enemies, but to choose a course that’s going to create them for you is—” Bobby shakes his head.

“No, We don’t intend to become spies in The Pale. In fact, I thought of something last night.” Dean glances down at Cas, then over at Sam, speaking as much to him as to anyone else in the cottage. “I was out in the village green, looking up at the stars. They seem different, seeing them from the surface of a world, than being surrounded by them. Less accessible, more desirable. On the ship, they’re just part of you. I suppose I’ve been taking them for granted, just like we took the high weather for granted on Kansas.” Dean turns from Sam’s smiling face to look at Bobby. “Or you take the hills, grass and clean air for granted here.” He turns back to Sam. “But it got me thinking the _Royal Sovereign_ was built to be an exploratory vessel. Why not recommission it? We’ve the experience of running the road from the Riven to League space—with a pilot and navigator and Baby, we were able to calculate to the finest edge and run the way without beacons or stations to guide us. We’re all of us more used to space—or at least to enclosed spaces—than planets. Those who aren’t,” Dean looks down at Cas and he looks back up, “have other compelling reasons to take such a course. The League must need to keep pushing outward, if not in the direction of The Pale, then towards the Riven, or in some other octant.” The last said to Bobby.

“We’ll need more than our current crew.” Sam’s obviously on board with the idea. “Additional pilots and nav for a start, really fill out our four shifts, so we can run the road. Plus whatever specialists and so forth we’ll need.” Dean can see the mental lists being written in Sam’s eyes.

“Well, it’s not me you have to convince.” Bobby says. “It’s this tribunal and I doubt if they’ll take my testimony as a good recommendation.”

“No, I doubt if they would.” Dean grins “Which reminds me, what do you know about Rufus Turner and his two Ardakians?”

“They’re still with him? Good, he needs the companionship. He was a hell-raiser, Rufus, back when I knew him. He always drank too much and ran right on the edge. He got shot up badly twice. Barely lived. But I’d trust him at my back.” As Bobby speaks, he looks at Cas and looks guilty.

“That’s high praise, from you.”

Bobby meets his eyes. “Dean, for me, after what I’ve seen and what I’ve done, that’s the single quality on which I judge a person. Trust them not to stab me and trust them to hold their own in a fight. Anything else is inconsequential.”

His expression is serious in a way Dean’s never seen before and he realizes Bobby’s speaking to him as to a peer, judging him fit to receive and understand such information. “I wonder if I really knew you, before,” he says softly.

“You knew me well enough. You both learned enough from me, that I can safely say, you learned to find your own way. That’s the greatest gift a student can give a teacher. To return to them as equals.” He reaches over and pats Sam on the shoulder, including him in the statement as well.

They carry on, into the afternoon, talking about Bobby’s childhood and his life as an actor, discuss strategies for recommissioning the _Royal Sovereign_ , laugh at Sam’s description of the effect Pinto’s had on the population of the ship. Bobby even speaks, briefly and with great reticence, of Ellen. Cas sits uncannily silent at Dean’s feet. He scarcely moves the entire time. The dog Rumsfeld lays panting on the hearth, watching them with dark eyes, dozing off now and then.

When Dean stands, finally, knowing they have to return both to the inn and then to Concord, he feels both regret and pleasure—regret for leaving after so short a time and pleasure in knowing Bobby will be here, even if it’s years before they can return. They head outside. Jo sits on the fence surrounding the pens, but she clambers down when she sees them and walks over. Sam and Dean both hug Bobby again and they trade words of farewell.

“Are you coming, Jo?” Sam asks.

She hesitates, glancing at her father. “No. I’ll be down in a while.”

Seeing there’s other business to complete, Dean whistles to Baby and, with Sam and Cas beside him, they leave. When he looks back from the last bend in the path where they can still see the cottage, neither figure has yet moved.

  


.oOo.

  


It’s night before Jo shows up at the inn. Dean forsakes the tables in the courtyard to stand out at the gate, pleased to be alone in his own company, but he moves to one side to make room for her when she walks up. Because she says nothing, at first, Dean says nothing. It’s another brilliant, clear night, the moon high and curved, attended by stars. In the courtyard behind, the evening crowd laughs and talks, a buzz of words in strange accents and strange languages. Cas is content to sit with Jody and Victor, Paisley and Baby at one of the tables, Dr. Visyak watching him from an adjacent table where she sits with Sam, Missouri and Owen. Owen’s taken a liking to Missouri, who patiently explains in painstaking detail the answers to his incessant questions. Benny has finally emerged from his room and although he sits beside Dr. Visyak he doesn’t speak, but keeps glancing at the other table and looking away as quickly.

“So you mean to try for a recommissioning,” Jo speaks abruptly into their silence.

“Sam and I have talked about it, yes. Do you think it’ll work?”

She looks a little pale, or perhaps tired by the long walk. But she manages a smile. “Between us and with min Moseley’s help, I think we can pull it off. Missouri’s very sharp.” Her mouth twists a little, like something pains her. “She’s a throwback, like we are. She’s happy to twist the system to her advantage, without any scruples at all.”

“Jo.” Dean falters, hearing some old pain in her tone he doesn’t want to enflame. “You have scruples.”

“I have what scruples I choose to have,” she says quietly. “As has been pointed out to me.”

That she’s speaking of their father is obvious to Dean. “I’m sorry,” he replies.

She shrugs, but the effort to appear casual fails. “We’ve made peace, of a kind.” She doesn’t speak for a long while, but finally she sighs and it’s a more hopeful sound. “We’ve made something to build on,” she finishes. “So we’ll be heading back to London tomorrow? We’ll need to send notice to the yacht skipper we’re leaving tomorrow night or the next morning, so he can put in for a launch schedule.”

“No.” Dean leans against the gate and smiles to himself, since Jo has turned her head enough away she can no longer see his expression. “I made a promise before we landed on Terra. We have one more place to visit.”

Now she turns. “Dean, none of your people have ever been on Terra before. Where could they possibly want to visit?”

He turns back to look into the courtyard, at Jody and Victor, sitting rather closer together than friends might. At Paisley, who’s diligently attempting to draw intelligible speech from Cas. At Owen, intent on the comm-slate Missouri’s pointing to. Even at Benny, who looks up at him as he stares and ventures the faintest hint of a smile. Lastly at the smooth metal form hovering watchfully, faithfully, loyally, behind Cas.

“I promised Baby,” he says. “I promised I’d take her to a place called—” he pauses taking a moment to recall the unfamiliar name, “Cleveland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Simple Man** – _Lynyrd Skynyrd_.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long road home.
> 
> * * *

Six months in dry dock hasn’t left a good impression of station life—or any life not onboard a ship—on Owen. While the _Royal Sovereign_ was being refitted, he’d been forced to live in quarters that were more spacious by the meter than his mother’s cabin on the _Sovereign_ , but still left him feeling cramped by the constant presence of hordes of station personnel surging past the door at all hours.

They’d introduced him to a play and education group, consisting of twelve children about his age and Owen felt he tolerated this arrangement fairly well, all things considered. A few of the children were even interesting and he wasn’t entirely sorry to hear five of the twelve boarded with their parents in preparation of the _Sovereign_ casting off.

Owen twists his glass round and around in his hands, growing bored. This last evening in dock seems endless. He wonders if throwing the glass at min Roberts will make her stop talking long enough for someone else, but he supposes it’d only turn the topic of the lecture to childish misbehavior, a subject he’s sure someone of min Roberts’ personality will know little about but have lengthy opinions on.

“And furthermore,” Jo continues, “not only did Dumah not appear for the hearing scheduled to discuss our charges, but evidently she’s left Concord altogether. Apparently she’s chosen not only to betray the trust invested in us all as citizens and governors of the League, but to escape from her responsibilities as well, like that absolves her. She’s no better—in fact she’s far, far worse—than the people she wants to eliminate. Naomi’s received information tracing her to Dunedin. It’s supposed she’s gone into The Pale, from which we can all devoutly hope she won’t return.” Jo pauses for breath, looking outraged and Sam calmly hands a bowl of salad to her and speaks before she can continue.

“From my few encounters with her, I imagine she’ll get along just fine there.” He grins. “Maybe she’ll join up with Ellen.”

“Mom would never have her,” she replies, sounding affronted before lapsing into silence.

Owen’s intensely grateful. For some reason, he can’t concentrate when min Roberts is off on one of her rants. The conversation drifts haphazardly to other things.

Brian deciding to accept an apprenticeship at Somerset Engineering Academy rather than work with the new Chief Engineer assigned to the _Royal Sovereign_ by the council overseeing Exploratory expeditions.

The medical specialist who’d examined Victor’s artificial arm and pronounced not only does it have augmented strength but a full range of software add-ons, like tracking, a computer linkup and enhanced tactile perception, enhancements Victor’d never suspected exist, much less learned to use.

Owen lets the conversation flow past him, only partly aware of it. He’s happy to be back on the ship, sitting in the mess eating, all the tables filled with new and old crew mixed together as they settle in at last. He feels like he’s home again.

There’s a stir around the table as Paisley walks in and a space is made for her to sit between the Captain and XO. Owen yawns. A few minutes later, Eleanor Visyak walks up and this time his mother moves aside to let the doctor sit down between her and Owen. Owen watches Eleanor sit down, caught between apprehension and interest.

“Ellie,” Dean asks from down the table. “What news for us?”

Eleanor accepts a glass of beer from Jody and takes a sip before she answers. “The transfer’s complete. My position has been neatly divided between that of parole adviser for Castiel and Chief of Xenopsychiatry. There were others equally qualified for the xeno position, but I fear I rather pulled strings and emphasized the illegal and unethical treatment Cas received during his prison sentence in order to get myself appointed. There hasn’t been a newly commissioned exploratory vessel for some years and a number of people have been eager to get on. To be honest Dean, I’ve been wishing for some time to get back into hands-on practice xeno work and with a Je’jiri family officially bonded to you, I’ve got plenty of work before we even get out of port.”

“I’m glad you’re aboard,” Dean says and Owen can tell he’s being sincere. “Anna and her family arrived back onboard yesterday. She said Thaddeus’ mate was amongst one of the other families at the ‘Kin-meet’ and she found him two days ago.”

Eleanor nods and turns to Owen. “What about you, Owen?” He fastens his hands tight around his glass and ventures a glance up at Eleanor. The doctor’s eyes are too piercing for his liking. “Are you glad to be back onboard?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” she says and she lifts one hand so for an instant Owen has a terrible fear she’s about to touch his hair—but she lowers it again, “in one of our talks do you remember telling me about the other people on the ship—the ones nobody else can see?”

“You can’t _see_ them,” Owen says, a little impatient she’s not grasped this point. “At least, not really. Anyway, the Je’jiri know they’re here. So does Cas.”

“Well, then,” Eleanor replies, switching her ground smoothly, “the ones no other humans can tell are here.”

“What about them?”

“Are they still here?”

Owen blinks. He sits back and concentrates, not on the conversation or the bodies or the general atmosphere of enthusiasm and anticipation coloring the air, but on the presences that exist farther back, a whisper, or a faint haze, against the backdrop of life. Grumpy walks past, heading out the door on the trail of some kind of practical joke. Fearful leaves an argument to return, as ever, to the Green Room. The Other Captain, her presence, as Owen focuses on her, is so sharp it’s like she’s actually standing there, paused in the doorway to survey her crew as they dine.

“Yes,” he says. “They’re still here. I think they’ll always be, don’t you?”

Now it’s Eleanor’s turn to blink. “I don’t know the answer to that question, Owen. I’m still trying to find out why you do.”

“Oh. Why do I?”

“I think it has something to do with the color of your hair, but—” she pauses as a plate full of food is handed to him by Jody, “we’ll have time enough to discover what we can about that.”

“My father has the same color,” Owen offers, thinking of Jehane’s golden hair. “And I bet,” he says, because the thought has just occurred to him, “he would’ve known about the other people, too.”

“I’ll bet he would,” agree Eleanor.

“I think he knew how people felt,” Owen drops his voice down to a whisper, “more than most people do and he could use it. It’s how he got people to do what he wanted. It’s why Alex left.” He checks to make sure his mother didn’t hear him.

“Are you still sorry about that?”

Owen risks another glance at his mother, then at Victor who sits directly across the table from him and is, as usual, trying and failing not to stare stupidly at Jody as she laughs. “I used to be,” he says, “but I’m not so sure I’m any more. Mom spent so much of her time looking after Alex, she forgot to be happy for herself. Anyway, Alex wouldn’t have wanted to be on an exploratory vessel.” Owen says the last two words with great relish.

Eleanor smiles. “And you do?”

“Oh, yes!”

Smile still on his lips, Owen sets to work on his food.

“—Naomi’s still angry about being outmaneuvered,” Jo’s saying, “but she’s good natured about it. She said she oughtn’t to have tried outflanking people of our experience.”

Dean chuckles. “Is that how she phrased it? _Our experience_? That’s very tactful of her.”

“Oh, Naomi’s a master of tact. She spent some years in the Diplomatic Corps, you know, before she went into Intelligence. Once she knew the majority of the tribunal would support our request, you must admit she did everything she could to support it and push it through.”

“She likes you, Jo. I can’t imagine why.”

Jo grins. “She keeps hoping she’ll reform me. I still don’t know why she thinks I need reforming.”

“Because,” Dean says firmly, but with humor, “you can’t escape your upbringing. Just think,” and he surveys the table at large, “Sam and I went to all the trouble of escaping the confines of Campbell House and here we are, consigning ourselves to a ship that’s far smaller and far more confining.” He looks over Paisley’s head to grin at Sam.

“But min Winchester,” Paisley objects, “it be far less confining. You can go ya anywhere you please. Pretty much.”

Dean drops his eyes to look at Paisley. “It’s true,” he admits, “the horizons are less limited.”

“Winchester.”

Sam and Dean turn at the sound of their name. Eyes widening, they stand up. “Rufus! Fred. Augustus. How did you get on?” Then Dean laughs, waving them forward to seats others at the table are moving from to make free. “Never mind. I’m not sure I want to know. I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you’d remain on Concord.”

Rufus grins. He still looks scruffy, but the color in his face is healthy and his smile is cheerfully sly.

“Got a job,” Fred says. He grins as well.

Augustus detaches his slate from his shoulder harness and sets it down on the table. “You can see the specifications here.” He slides it forward so Dean can examine it. Paisley very quietly slips out of her seat, switching with Sam so he can get a better look.

They study the screen for a moment, look at each other and then turn back. “What is this?”

Rufus coughs. “After you left for Terra, secrets intact, the woman from Administration—Naoki—hired us as consultants to reconfigure the security system at Concord prison.”

“No.” The brothers, then Jody and Victor start to laugh.

“Do you mean to say,” Victor asks, “they never worked out who actually sprang Cas?”

“Don’t know,” Fred confesses. “We never asked. Pay’s too good.”

“And it is certainly not information we would spontaneously reveal,” Augustus adds.

Several people start talking at once and Owen, who’s been dislodged from his chair by their arrival, decides to reacquaint himself with the ship instead. He wanders out of the mess, nodding at the Mule and Pinto where they sit with their new pilot and navigational teams, at Rainbow with the brilliant Ridani contingent, at two of the children from his play group and finally escapes out the door into blessed solitude.

Only it’s not quite solitude. Despite the many people crowding the mess, as many are at duty stations, busy with the last preparations for casting off tomorrow. He dodges carts and crew on his way down to bronze level, where he flees into the comparative quiet of the remodeled Je’jiri quarters.

The Dai welcomes him with a brief nod and he’s allowed to sit in on an hour-long lesson in three-dimensional modeling with Purah and Joshua. After which, he’s no longer welcome to stay, since there are other needs they must see to which the Je’jiri don’t share with aliens. Owen leaves and meanders along the corridors, aimless. He skirts the Green Room and takes an elevator to silver deck, strolling the crew cabins, pausing now and again to read the unfamiliar names appended to the doors of each one. All are filled. He stops when he hears Dean’s voice through an open door.

“You want to _what_?” He sounds incredulous.

Benny’s voice is stiff when he replies, but it holds an undercurrent of pleading in it. “I want your permission to attach myself to the expedition returning to Riven space. If it’s possible.”

“You don’t need my permission, Benny. I’m just surprised you want to go.”

“I haven’t been happy here brother. You know that.”

“That’s true enough. I’m sorry I haven’t had more time to spend with you…”

“It’s nothing to do with you, Dean,” he says quickly. “I know I’ve been hard to get along with and haven’t tried to make friends like I could’ve.”

“You’ve certainly been hard on the Ridanis. Especially Paisley. You’ll be the only other one of us going back, Benny. Promise me you’ll be kinder to her than you have been. It’s not easy for her to go.” Dean’ voice holds a note of command in it.

Benny’s silence stretches out so long that it’s a confession in itself.

“Damn,” Dean murmurs. “Benny! She’s why you’re going back, isn’t she?” Owen decides he’s been wrong in thinking Dean incredulous before, because it’s nothing to the astonishment in his voice now.

“We all make mistakes,” Benny mumbles.

Owen feels a presence come up behind him and he whirls, expecting to see a shadow, or a faint haze in the air. But it’s only Paisley. She combs a hand through his hair, a liberty Owen allows no one else but his mother and waits along with him. Neither of them can see inside Benny’s room.

“If that’s going to be your attitude, Benny,” Dean speaks angrily, “then I don’t think you should go.”

“No,” he says fiercely. “You misunderstand me. I guess I deserved as much. I _meant_ we all make mistakes when we try to convince ourselves we can’t—” he hesitates and then plunges on, “that we can’t love someone who we think we ought to despise or hate, or fear, because of _what_ they are. Not _who_ they are. Yes, I’m going back because of Paisley. I need to try to make it up to her, the way I’ve treated her and the other Ridanis, by helping her now. I only realized—when I found out she was leaving. That’s when I thought, how would I feel if I never saw her again?”

There’s a pause. “I understand, Benny,” Dean says softly. “Only too well. But I think you ought to ask Paisley first.”

Paisley draws her hand down off Owen and slips past him, disappearing inside the room. There’s a longer silence. Then, Paisley’s voice, softer even than Dean’s. “I don’t want ya man, Benny, if that be what you’re meaning. I mean to bring ya Ridanis to ya green grass land and if you will help me—well then, you’ll be beside me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Benny answers, so muffled his assent is barely audible.

A moment later Dean emerges into the corridor, looking thoughtful. “Well, hello, Owen,” he says, seeing him. “Looking for someone?”

“No.” He waits, expectant.

“Would you like to come with me to Medical?”

He nods eagerly and follows along, acknowledging the people they pass with an air of importance secured him by Dean’s company. He doesn’t speak and when they enter Medical he stops inside the door and simply watches for a long while.

Flower’s putting the scan on one of the new beds through its paces and she looks up and nods, seeing Dean. The other physician is half-hidden in one of the isolation rooms, on his hands and knees as he fiddles with the controls under a console. But it’s Cas who Dean watches.

First his form standing at a counter in the lab. He opens each drawer and takes out each tool, each piece of equipment, handles it, smells it and sets it back in precise order. Then he moves to the next counter and repeats the procedure. Owen can tell by the way his posture changed when they came in that Cas knows Dean is here, but what he’s doing engages his attention more surely, at this moment, than Dean does.

Dean’s smiling, equal parts sadness and relief. Finally, Cas ventures out into the main ward and he crosses slowly to them, touching each bed as he passes, pausing at each scan and running his fingers across it, like he can feel in the grain of its plass and metal exterior the health of its mechanisms inside. To Owen, he still looks more Je’jiri than human, so much so Owen would have said, had he not been told by his mother what had happened, that this was a different person entirely.

Except when Cas glances up at Dean at last, coming close enough they can clearly see into each other’s faces. Then he’s _Cas_. He stops in front of Dean and turns his head to look at Flower, then the other physician, then Owen and back at Dean.

He says something in Je’jirin first, consciously stops himself and concentrates. He starts to speak, gives up and shuts his eyes. Dean waits, patient. Flower drifts into the lab, leaving them in peace. Cas opens his eyes suddenly. “‘When I count,’” he speaks in the clipped accent Standard that’s similar to the Dai’s, “‘there are only you and I together, But when I look ahead up the white road, There is always another one walking beside you.’”

“That’s you, Cas,” Dean tells him quietly. “I know you feel like there’s two of you, but you just have to put both parts together.”

Cas’ expression doesn’t change. He seems to be considering Dean’s words, but it also seems like they don’t make any sense to him. Dean sighs, but he doesn’t give up. “Show me the new equipment?” he asks.

Now Cas clearly understands Dean and, with the muted voice Owen recognizes as Je’jiri enthusiasm, he leads them on a tour of Medical’s refit. Cas hasn’t lost any of his facility as a doctor, whatever else he’s suffered.

In the last ward he speaks suddenly. “You told me, if you knew then what you know now you wouldn’t have slept with me.” Cas’ voice stops everyone in their tracks. At first Owen thinks Dean has stopped because of the question, then he realizes Dean stopped because it was _Cas’_ voice asking, not the Je’jiri.

“You’re talking about on the _Endeavour_?” Dean asks and Owen can tell he’s stalling for time, probably to collect his thoughts. Cas nods and Dean continues. “I meant it at the time. I wouldn’t say it now.”

Cas’ head tilts to the side and Owen starts creeping backward, realizing this isn’t a conversation he’s meant to hear, but he’s scared if he makes any noise they’ll stop talking to each other.

Cas and Dean have always moved inside of each other’s space, but when Dean leans into Cas now and places his hand over Cas’ heart, it feels to Owen like an entire room has been crossed. “Like calls to like. When the Dai first said that to me I didn’t know what she meant.” He draws a breath. “But it was the first time we met. I didn’t even know your name and I wanted you.” 

Cas nods. “When Jehane’s people moved Metatron, Dumah and I to an interview room, after a time I thought I felt you in the other room. I couldn’t scent you, but I thought you were there behind the plass.”

“I was. I nearly put my hand over yours when you reached out,” Dean tells him. “Then Jehane himself walked into the room.” He shrugs. “We were always going to be together Cas.”

“The profound bond,” Cas whispers.

“It’s how Anna’s family found me. So no, Cas, I wouldn’t say the same thing now that I said on the _Endeavour_.” His voice changes, an edge of humor creeping in. “I would’ve made sure you never had to meet Benny.”

“And the other one?” Cas asks quietly. 

“I’m not sure I could have prevented Nick. I didn’t even know he was on station.” Dean’s arms part, opening up a space for Cas to move into. “I’m so sorry Cas.”

Owen is nearly out the door when he hears Cas speak, muffled in Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“It’s okay, Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”

Owen can hear Cas chuckling as he slips out of the room and roams further on and up, finding himself at last on the bridge.

Charlie and a number of unfamiliar faces are on duty, running the ship through her final checks. He curls up in the one out of the way corner and, lulled by the smooth flow of their voices counting off stats and measures, Owen falls asleep.

  


.oOo.

  


Owen wakes a little disorientated at first, groping around, because someone’s thrown a blanket over him but otherwise left him be. Still there are voices, almost twin to the ones he’d fallen asleep to, but more of these are familiar.

“We have clearance from traffic control,” says Bela.

“Rolling back hold two,” says Sam. “I have a secure on hatch one. Hatch two secured. Hatch three secured.”

“I have received preliminary vector coordinates,” hisses the Mule.

“Hatch four secured. Hold one and hold three are level.”

Owen sits up. From his vantage point, he can see Dean’s profile clearly. Baby hovers at his elbow, her surface gleaming in the hard light of the bridge.

Comm crackles. “All hands secured,” Jody sounds over the speaker.

“Hatch five secured,” Sam says. “All hatches and holds are worthy, Captain.”

Dean keys in to his console. “Traffic control, this is Captain Winchester of the _Royal Sovereign_. We’re ready to detach.”

“Detach acknowledged,” responds the disembodied voice of traffic control. “Good luck _Royal Sovereign_.”

“Thank you,” Dean replies and he smiles. “Pinto?”

“Detach commencing,” Pinto says. He adjusts the stillstrap a final time and looks over at the Mule. The Mule looks back and their crest lifts as they hiss in approval.

“Did I ever tell you the story,” Victor speaks from where he’s standing against the wall, “about how my grand-pap got caught inside a mining remote that was pulled into a window by the wake of a big military cruiser?”

“Why, no,” Dean says solemnly, “I don’t think we’ve heard that one, Victor.”

The ship jars slightly. “Detach achieved,” Pinto announces. “We are free.”

The door to the bridge opens and Cas appears. He takes two steps onto the bridge and stops. Dean turns, sees him and nods. He walks over to stand just beside Dean, hand resting on the back of his chair.

“Commence countdown to window,” Dean orders.

“Three-forty-seven,” the Mule reads off. “Three-forty-eight. Homing at fourteen-ought-three-two-seven degrees.”

“Check,” Pinto confirms.

Baby sings:

  
_“Carry on, you will always remember_  
_Carry on, nothing equals the splendor_  
_Now your life's no longer empty_  
_Surely heaven waits for you.”_

  


On the screen above, the vast superstructure of Concord recedes and drops out of view as they turn, appearing again on the back screen while the front fills with a measureless expanse of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Carry on Wayward Son** by _Kansas_.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This concludes the Long Road Home. Thank you all who have traveled this journey with me.
> 
> My Lady Fox, I don't have the words to express to everyone how much you do in the background. I know I've been trying to write something pretty and deserving of you and I just can't.
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you've enjoyed this story I urge you to buy the original works this is based on.
> 
> The Highroad Trilogy  
> [A Passage of Stars.](https://amzn.to/2ZevaaK)  
> [Revolution's Shore.](https://amzn.to/2Ip24QW)  
> [The Price of Ransom.](https://amzn.to/2Vc484R)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come find me on the Discord server [The Profound Bond.](https://discord.gg/NcMHjzW)


End file.
